From Dragonlords to Phoenixes
by NaTak
Summary: As much as Merlin feels he is done with destiny, it seems that destiny is not done with him. Arthur is dead and Merlin's world is falling apart. However, his duty to Albion is not complete. Almost despite himself, the young warlock embarks on a journey that will redefine his notion of both magic and purpose. (A Merlin/HP crossover that is mostly Merlin with a sprinkle of HP).
1. From Avalon to Camelot

Welcome to all! (but specially to Merlin fans ^_^)  
This is the beginning of what might turn out to be a respectable series of Merlin/HP crossovers. *crosses fingers*  
I feel like we only got a taste of how powerful and BAMF Merlin can be in the series, so I'd like to capitalize on that.  
I must warn you, though! This might be a little (oh, who am I kidding?) _a lot_ slow paced.

Huge thanks to Amlia, my lovely beta. Without her this fic would not be.  
All remaining mistakes are hers. (Haha). No.

I do hope you enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter 1: From Avalon to Camelot**

* * *

He does not know how long he stood there, gazing unseeing upon the tranquil lake waters. It darkens and it brightens. Must have been days.

In the back of his mind, Merlin takes notice of these small details. How his body feels untiring, even if it's been days since he last rested. How his head is clear and his muscles strong, even if it's just as long since he last ate or drank.

He is pretty sure he forgot to breathe a few times, too.

He can feel the magic sustaining him, keeping him alive of its own volition. It's not like he is doing it consciously. It's not like he feels like living anymore.

It's like he is stuck in of his own time spells. Those scattered, uncontrollable bits of magic that often escaped him in his early years. Except, this time, he is the one frozen in time and space, while the rest of the world moves around him.

Ominously, Kilgharrah's parting words echo in his head.

They are not a comfort.

Merlin has lived a life dictated by destiny. A life full of heartache and disappointment and failure. But no matter how much he feels he's done with destiny, it seems destiny is not done with him.

As he stands facing the lake of Avalon, the resting place of his dearest friend, Merlin remembers a decisive meeting, in the busy streets of Camelot, almost 10 years past. A frightened young voice resonated inside his head. _Emrys_ , it called him.

Emrys.

He never did get an explanation for what that name means, Merlin thinks, taking a deep breath, possibly the first in hours. The cold night air burns in his lungs, but he can honestly say it makes no difference to his body.

He's not simply Merlin, after all. He's Emrys. He's magic itself.

Emrys.

In the cave, when he rediscovered his magic, he had thought he'd finally understand what his Druid name meant. Magic, that's what I am, he'd thought.

Now, though, he is beginning to realize that magic is only what enables him to be who and what he is. And that is, unavoidably, Emrys.

Immortal.

And though the Druids might have called him Emrys from the beginning, Emrys is not something he is and always was, it's rather something he became. Or something that became of him.

He's brought out of his turbulent thoughts by a soft whining noise coming from the trees behind him. The warlock lets the magic he'd drawn up go, and feels time start moving forwards with him once again.

Slowly, he glances over his shoulder – the most drastic movement he's done in days – to find his and Arthur's horses looking back at him. They appear unhurt, it a bit ruffled.

Merlin's mare, a docile old thing, steps forward and stops a few inches from his face, as if saying, are you coming or not?

He seriously contemplates turning away and spending the rest of his days inmobly staring at the lake – maybe the grass will grow over his feet, and birds will nest on top of his head, and if he's lucky it will rain so much the lake will overflow and drow him – but in the end decides against it. Arthur does not deserve such a depressing sight upon his resting place.

* * *

After a day's journey, Camelot can finally be seen in the horizon. The sun is about to set, and the view would have been breathtaking if it weren't for the black flags raised on top of each tower of the castle. The city is in mourning.

So they know already. Merlin wonders how, but the thought is brief. After who knew how many days with no news on the whereabouts of the king, it's a reasonable assumption he is not coming back.

Still, Merlin feels something cold and bitter cut him from the inside as he realizes they didn't even wait for his arrival for confirmation. They had little faith he would be able to save Arthur.

The feeling worsens as he admits to himself that they were right. He failed. And now he has to face the knights and Gaius and Gwen—

His heart stutters as he thinks of her, and he cannot believe this is the first time he considers that Arthur's death affects not he alone. That Arthur was his friend, but he was also Gwen's husband and partner, the knights' leader and true companion, the people's hero and savior. Arthur is not only his to grief, and it was selfish of him to ever act like he was.

But even as he decides his friends deserve to know how Arthur died and what part Merlin himself played in all of this, still he lingers behind the tree line, just out of sight to any guards patrolling the city walls.

Despite all his power, he feels weak. Despite the magic sustaining him, he feels impossibly tired.

If only he could hide in his room in Gaius' chambers, lie in his bed and rest for a few hours before having to face the world…

With a start, Merlin realizes that he can. It's simple, obvious, really.

He sets his horse free, nudging her along with Arthur's stallion with a thought to run toward the city and not stop until reaching the castle stables. Then, Merlin closes his eyes and imagines hearing the rustling and clincking of Gaius working on his medicines and tinctures, he imagines smelling the mixture of old books and mold of his wardrobe, he imagines feeling the rough but warm texture of his bedcover.

* * *

As he sits on his bed in his post-dusk darkened room – the half-opened door to the physician's chamber being the major source of light – Merlin marvels at his latest display of impressive, effortless magic. Gone were the days he had to spend hours trying to master a spell.

Merlin distractedly turns his attention to himself, more worried with listening for signs that Gaius is outside. He realizes he is filthy with battle, travel and mourning. Usually, he would fill a lukewarm water basin and scrub off the worse of the dirt. It's an unpleasant, time consuming task. Now though, he knows he only has to will it to be as clean and refreshed as he wants.

He blinks, and wonders how would it be to never move a muscle or open his mouth again, to simply let magic deal with mundane things such as life in his stead. Once, Merlin would have remembered Gaius' words about the true purpose to magic and hesitated. Now his eyes flash gold and he smells of soap.

Merlin hears the sound of the outer door opening and closing. It's Gaius, and he is alone. Merlin can always kind of tell these sorts of things. His magic has always worked as an extra sense that allows him to get a feel of people. Normally, he shies away from these sensations and tries to ignore these intuitions, afraid of letting on he knows things he is not supposed to. Now, he embraces the sense, and dives deep into it, reaching out and absorbing as much information as he can.

The first thing that jumps to his attention is Gaius's magic. The magical signature is something that always draws Merlin, be it either from people, animals, objects or places. But he had never realized how much he could learn from a magical signature simply by reaching out with his own magic.

Merlin does that now. He lets a tendril of his magic travel through the wall, across the room to the old physician. He lets it circle him, envelop him. He senses his teacher's moderate magical powers, his honeyed if rusty capabilities.

Then, Merlin focuses on Gaius' body, on his strong if old heart, his thinned bones, his congested lungs – cold? -, his empty stomach – forgot to eat supper?

Lastly, Merlin reaches for his mind. He brushes against it, softly. Worry, grief, pain, fear flash in a convoluted mess and Merlin gasps loudly.

On the other side of the door, Gaius lets something slip from his hands and it smashes on the floor. He'd heard him.

Merlin stands up, horrified with himself, horrified that he had dared invade Gaius' mind like that. What's wrong with him? What is he doing? He is not like this. Is he?

But he has no time to ponder this question, for Gaius is throwing the door open the rest of the way and staring up at him, surprise clear in his lined face.

"Merlin!" He exclaims, sounding relieved. "You're home."

Gaius steps into the door as if to throw his arms around Merlin and hug him, but something in the young man's expression stops him.

"Merlin?" His tone is tentative now. "My dear boy, you've been gone for weeks. What happened?"

But Merlin can't find it in himself to answer. He barely knows it himself. So he just stands there, drinking into Gaius's features and magic and life, pulsing right in front of him. He focuses on that, and is impossibly glad for it.

Gaius, blessed him, might not know what's happening, but he knows what to do.

He reaches forward purposefully, as he might to grab for an ingredient in one of his coconutions, and wraps his arms around Merlin, pulling him tight against his chest.

Merlin, for his part, only curls into the hug and lets himself be grounded by it, while expanding his magic around Gaius' and hugging him as he cannot with his arms. It might be only Merlin's impression, but he thinks Gaius notices it, because his grip on Merlin's back momentarily thightens.

Be what Emrys may be, to Gaius he is still Merlin.

* * *

The first few weeks, Merlin doesn't speak.

It's not that he doesn't have anything to say, or that he doesn't want to talk to his friends. It's just that try as he might he can't seem to be able to find words to retell what happened.

When Merlin tries to rehearse in his head how he might approach Gwen about her husband, he always ends up thinking about a young, naive yet fearful boy, full of power, and lacking desperately in purpose. He has flashes of dragons and prophecies and murderous children. He feels dread and powerlessness. Merlin remembers his last days with Arthur, and is overcome by such love and regret he is amazed his chest doesn't burst out with the vicious strength of his feelings.

There are very few words that can describe exactly what Arthur meant to Merlin. _Everything_ is one of them.

There are no words that can make justice to how destroyed Merlin is by his loss. He tries them all: hopeless, bereft, raw, purposeless…

But all the words in the English language can't possibly comport the enormity of the significance of Arthur's death as it is: before Arthur, Merlin had no objective to achieve, no dream to follow, no wish to fulfill. Before Arthur, Merlin had no reason to live. And from the beginning, Merlin knew how things would end. He knew, and all his actions ensured that those predictions came true. Merlin fulfilled all the prophecies, just as he tried to prevent them.

So, although Merlin doesn't protest when Gaius informs the queen that he is back, the warlock doesn't show up when summoned. Although he doesn't hide in his room all day, he quietly (magically) slips away when someone he knows approaches as he is completing his tasks around the castle (either acting as Gaius' helping hand or performing chores recently assigned to him by the royal steward). He makes himself not quite invisible, more like unnoticeable when he crosses paths with people looking for him. And he unscrupulously blinks himself away when Gwen or Gaius try to corner him in his room.

During his solitary wanderings, Merlin discovers more of what happened after Camlann. He hears talk about new treaties being set in motion with the other kingdoms. He hears reports about the Saxons retreat. He hears accounts of the day the queen declared she knew there was no longer any point in waiting and was proclaimed ruler. He hears the reports on the battle toll.

When Merlin learns of Gwaine's cruel death, he spends one whole day sitting on the ramparts of the tallest tower in Camelot, fantasizing about slipping forward in his clumsiness.

In the end, what causes him to emerge from his self imposed isolation, is the presence of something foreign and unknown emmanating, strangely enough, from Queen Guinevere herself.

* * *

It is late morning, and Merlin is apparently busy with scrubbing the floors of the antechamber that leads to the council room. In truth, the floors have been clean for a while now, and he is actually listening in to the debate happening on the other side of the guarded closed doors. Usually, the thick wooden structures are enough to prevent any sound from escaping the confines of the private meeting, but Merlin had, with a flash of his eyes, made sure that his hearing reached the round table.

When Arthur was King, Merlin had, as his manservant, almost unrestricted access to important meetings and councils, which, although often boring, provided crucial information on mysterious, possibly magical incidents that Merlin liked to keep an eye out for, in case the royal prat needed any saving – as was usually the case – or in case there was any magical creature or sorcerer that could use his help.

With Arthur gone, and Merlin dutifully – and possibly mutinously too – avoiding the queen, Sir Leon and Sir Percival – the only two remaining knights of the original round table –, he has no way of participating in the council.

So he has no choice but to crawl through the floors and pretend to be slow and useless, while secretly using his illegal abilities to try and save everyone – a fair summary of his whole life in the city, now that he stops to consider it.

Merlin does it after habit, really. Because, what is the point of keeping his cover as a lowly servant? What is the point of listening into these meetings? What is the point of protecting Camelot? What is the point of staying in Camelot even, with Arthur gone? He refuses to answer Gaius' questions, he avoids Gwen like the plague, he ignores anyone who talks to him outside matters of his chores. Merlin could as well go back to Ealdor live with his mother, or leave to travel the world. He could make new friends, start afresh somewhere far away. He should get used to goodbyes – being immortal means he will outlive every person he knew, and every person he will ever come to know.

And it is in that moment of Merlin's bleak musings that the council chambers' doors are thrown open and people start filling out, distracting him, at least for now.

" _Bemīþ mec_ ," he mutters hastily under his breath.

Men and women, young and old, rich and poor walk past him. Gwen made a point of summoning people from all backgrounds to form her council, a popular decision among the common folk, and a controversial one among the upper classes.

Lastly, emerges the queen, accompanied by her faithful knights, Sir Leon and Sir percival. They are in a deep discussion – which Merlin has been half-heartedly following from a distance – about recruiting new knights and foot soldiers, and slide past him without glancing his way, as Merlin ensured they would.

But as they leave the antechamber, a flicker of something catches Merlin's attention. He focuses his magical awareness around, feeling out his surroundings, and realizes that a second, small but pulsing, life-force seems to be coming from Gwen.

Merlin hesitates for a moment, before following the queen to the corridors that lead to her private chambers – she hasn't been able to go back to the room she shared with her husband.

Casting his magic ahead of him, he tentatively reaches out to Gwen, fully expecting the violent backlash of some evil influence – she had been under Morgana's control for weeks a few months previous after all – and is thoroughly surprised to find a warm, benign presence instead.

Bewildered, Merlin approaches the queen, just as she is bidding the knights goodbye. They walk on and turn a corridor, still in a heated discussion, disappearing from sight.

" _Bemelde þín_ _dierne_."

Casting his power a bit more intensely, the warlock tries to get a better feeling of the presence coming from Gwen. He looks for some object that stores a curse, like Morgana's old bracelet, or for some magical spell or even the effects of a magical parasite, but finds none. He wonders if there is any kind of sickness known to provoke such strange effects.

So distracted Merlin is with this possibility, he only just realizes the queen hasn't entered her quarters, and is instead squinting towards him, as if trying to see through fog or at a great distance.

"Who is there?" Gwen demands, voice strong and steady. "Show yourself!"

Startled, the warlock checks to see if he's dropped his illusionment spell by accident. But the magic holds strong. This is not his doing, it's Gwen's. _How_ she is doing this, though, is mystery to the warlock.

The queen's expression changes from defiant to uncertain.

"Merlin…? Is that you?"

She takes a tentative step forwards, then, more confidently, another, and another, until she's standing right in front of him, looking into his eyes. And although Merlin has not let his hold of the magic go, he knows Gwen sees right through it, as if it wasn't there.

She doesn't say anything, just stares at him, face unreadable.

His first night back, Gaius told Merlin he was certain the queen had at least a measure of idea of the role Merlin played in winning the battle of Camlann.

'It seems', the old physician reported, 'that Gwen appears to accept the idea that magic had an important part in insuring Camelot's victory and that magic was Arthur's last hope of recovering.' Merlin hadn't had the heart to ask Gaius about how Gwen had reacted to discovering that her old friend had been a sorcerer and a liar all along.

He wishes he had, for now the almighty Emrys can't stand to meet a young grieving queen's eyes, fearing the reaction he will find there.

The sharp slap to the face, if unavoidably startling, is in truth quite expected. The engulfing hug that follows, though, catches Merlin completely off guard and has him murmuring the first, strangled, sentence he has said in almost two months.

"It's all my fault, Gwen." The words pour out of him, as if her hug had bursted a bubble that held them all. "I'm so sorry. You all trusted me and I failed. And now he is dead because of me. I'm so sorry." His voice breaks as he hugs her back fiercely, eyes closing to try to hold back tears.

The queen doesn't reply, doesn't contradict him, just holds him tightly. It's both terrible and wonderful.

* * *

After Gwen has guided Merlin into her chambers, warning the servants who arrived bringing her lunch that they were not to be disturbed, the queen sits on one of the armchairs in front of the unlit fireplace and gestures for the young man to do the same.

Quietly, his first friend in Camelot asks Merlin to tell her everything. He doesn't even consider denying her.

Halfway through his tale, Merlin realizes Gwen is crying silently, brown eyes fixed on him.

Startled, he realizes he is crying with her.

Hours go by. The queen starts asking questions, demanding clarifications, confirming facts. Merlin is forced to go back and forth in his story. He realizes it's easier to talk when there is a question to prompt him, Gwen helps him focus on small parts of the whole, preventing him from becoming overwhelmed as he feared he would.

"I… I don't know what to say, Merlin." Gwen whispers in the end. At that moment she is not the confident queen she became, but the shy servant girl she had been a decade ago, on the day they first met.

"It's hard to reconcile with the fact that you are… you, but you are also a sorcerer." Twisting her hands on her lap, she avoids his gaze.

"I've always thought of magic as something dangerous, corruptive, evil," she admits. "But I can never believe you to be dangerous, or corrupt, or evil. So I guess..." Her eyes fly back to his. "That means not all magic is evil, if you have magic too."

Merlin smiles a little at that.

"I used to think as magic as a sword," the warlock tells her. Their tears have dried, and Merlin feels it's easier to draw breath than it has been for weeks. "A tool that is not inherently good nor evil, but which can be use to do good and evil depending on who is wielding it."

Gwen nods. "I… can see the analogy," she says with uncertainty. She pauses for the longest moment.

"Merlin, you are my oldest friend," Gwen begins, suddenly standing up and turning around to face the windows. "I understand why you would hesitate to tell me or-or Arthur," her voice breaks a little on the name, but she forges on, "about your magic when Uther was King. But after he died… after Arthur was crowned King…"

She stops, before slowly turning back to him, face hard.

"I can forgive the lies and deceit. What is hard to forgive is your lack of trust in us. In me."

Merlin stands up too, head bowed.

"I understand, Gwen," he replies calmly.

"What is hard to forgive," she continues as if she hasn't heard him, "is that it took you three weeks, _three weeks_ , to come back after he died. Three weeks in which I felt it in my bones that he was gone, but still, even after the ceremony… even knowing I shouldn't, I hoped." There are tears back in her eyes again, though this time she refuses to let them fall. "What is hard to forgive is that you put him to rest without me." The queen pauses and breathes deeply. "What breaks my heart is how you avoided me for six weeks. Ignored my requests to see you. Fled the room when I arrived – don't you think I didn't notice it."

Merlin thought there was no heart left in him to hurt, after Arthur. He was wrong.

"I'm so sorry, Gwen," he says helplessly, knowing this will never be enough.

How could he tell her he didn't notice it had been three weeks? How could he tell her he hadn't felt capable of talking to her – or anyone for that matter? How could he tell her he was so weak? So weak, where she was so strong. Strong enough not to despair, but to take control of the situation and do what must be done.

For all his power, for all his magic, Merlin always lacks in strength. Strength of will, strength of character, those are Arthur and Gwen's virtues, not his.

She seems to read all this and more in his expression, for she sags a little, moving over to rest her weight against her work desk.

"For what it's worth," she tells him, "I'm sorry too."

At his inquisitorial look, she elaborates.

"I'm sorry for all the prejudice and persecution you had- you have to face. I'm sorry you had to live in fear and hide who you were from everyone. I'm sorry you had to stay in the shadows and have others take credit for you actions."

"That's not why I do it," Merlin interrupts quickly, another conversation coming back to him. "I don't do it for recognition. I do it because I believe- believed in Arthur, and in the world he would build."

"And what world is that?"

The queen poses the question mildly, but Merlin senses that his response will carry great weight, so he takes his time in answering it.

"In that world," he begins carefully, taking his turn to walk to the windows and gaze outside, "there is unity and peace among the lands. The people prosper, both the nobility and the common folk. We are all treated as equals. We all work together, helping however we can to grow food, and build houses, and protect the land, and heal people, and save lives."

Turning to face Gwen, Merlin's expression is serious, intense.

"In that world," he continues, "we are not judged by our birth, or what we can or cannot do, but on our choices and our actions."

The queen smiles at that, approaching to take Merlin's hands in hers.

"Merlin, I'm not Arthur," she states, "I'll never be as good as a ruler as he was."

The warlock attempts to contradict her, but she shushes him with a look.

"No, listen. It is the truth," she continues. "I'll never manage to lead the arm or inspire the people like he did." Gwen smiles, apparently completely at peace with the notion. "But I want to help to build the world that he envisioned. I want to do it better, even."

Merlin trembles with emotion, barely letting himself hope that he understood right the underlying meaning of her words.

"But Merlin," she says sternly, "I can't do it without you."

Letting the seriousness drop a little, Gwen smiles, with a hint of her old playfulness.

"If Arthur couldn't do it without you, secretly lending a helping hand every step of the way, how could I?"

Merlin half shrugs.

"He would have found a way," he replies.

"Maybe," Gwen says unconvinced. "Maybe not. The fact is that the peace and safety we have now was secured with your help."

She looks thoughtfully at the courtyard below them. At the people rushing about with their days. He follows her gaze.

"The work is not done, though." Gwen's tone is meaningful.

Merlin doesn't answer at once. He is busy watching a mother scold her young daughter. He wonders what she had done to anger her mother as such. The graying woman is purple in the face with rage.

Maybe the girl dropped the fruit basket she was supposed to be holding, maybe she had a nasty fight with her little brother, maybe she didn't want to wash her hair.

But maybe the girl had magic and had done something with it, to her mother absolute terror.

How many times had Hunith beaten Merlin when he was young and had done magic where anyone could have seen it? How many times had Merlin seen the fear badly masked by outward anger in his mother face?

How many parents still worried sick over their children when they manifested uncontrollable magical abilities? How many young sorcerers and sorceresses feared for their lives daily, for simply being who they were?

If still one person did, it was one too many.

"No. It's not," he agrees, at last.

The queen smiles.

* * *

When Gaius arrives back to the physician's chambers, after his afternoon rounds, Merlin is sitting on the dinner table, waiting for him with supper ready.

"It's stew," the warlock says simply. "You should eat it while it's still warm."

Nonplussed, Gaius sets his things aside and pulls a bench opposite to Merlin's.

"I'm really sorry, Gaius," it's how Merlin begins.

Night has long fallen before the young man stops speaking. Merlin tells his teacher everything, from Arthur's last moments, to the dragon's ominous words, to his recent discoveries about his magical abilities.

The only thing he doesn't mention is his realization about what being Emrys means.

When he finishes, Gaius is astonished.

"You say you are able to-to transport yourself from one place to another with no spell or incantation? And to camouflage for hours to end effortlessly?" His eyebrows are far into his hairline.

At Merlin's shy nod, Gaius sighs.

"You, my dear boy, have always been an impossibility," he says. "I always knew to expect great things of you."

The young warlock turns away.

"I can do all sorts of impossible things," he mumbles, "but I fail at the one thing that truly matters."

Gaius reaches forwards and places a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Even you, with all your magic," he says as gently as he can, "are not infallible, Merlin." When the young man looks back at him, the physician smiles kindly. "And even Arthur, the 'Once and Future King'", he quotes, "was not immortal. One day, either at Camlann, or 20 years in the future, by a sword or by a disease or by old age, he would die. Just as we all will."

At that, Merlin feels an abrupt urge to throw up, and he can't bare to face Gaius' wrinkled expression. He stands up and walks around the room, restless.

"Merlin?" The old man inquired worriedly.

Grasping for anything to change to subject, Merlin says the first thing that springs to mind.

"Earlier today," he stops his pacing to look at Gaius, "I felt something hiding inside Gwen or around her. It pulsed with a life-force of its own."

At the physician's alarmed expression, Merlin is quick to reassure him.

"No, no. Nothing like that. It wasn't… evil. It was…" He searches for the right words. "Organical?" He tries, before shaking his head. "No, no. More like… something alive, something warm and growing. Gaius," Merlin stares at his teacher, horrified, "it wasn't on her, or possessing her. It was coming from inside her body. I've never seen anything like it."

At Gaius' surprised gasp, Merlin shares his hypothesis.

"Do you think it's possible that Gwen has developed some sort of deadly sickness?"

"Deadly–what?" He trips on the words. "No! Of course not. Honestly, Merlin," his tone is impatient, "you may be the most powerful sorcerer to ever live, but you are still an idiot."

At Gaius' familiar exasperation, Merlin can't help but let out a small chuckle. Which soon grows into a true laugh, as the physician joins him.

"Alright then," the warlock demands when their giggles subside. "What am I missing?"

"The impression you just described," Gaius replies, with the tone he usually takes when talking about his remedies, or magical creatures, or sicknesses, "reminds me of how Alice used to describe a particular _female_ condition."

At Merlin's blank expression he elaborates. "It appears that the queen is with child."

Merlin is rendered speechless.

"What?" He asks, expression blank. "Gwen is- but how?"

At Gaius' nonplussed raised eyebrow, the warlock amends, "I mean, I know how. But. It's been what? Two months since-since. Even if they _had_ \- I mean. Right before the battle." He struggles with the uncomfortable concepts, to Gaius' great amusement. "How can't Gwen not know by now?" He inquires.

"Maybe with losing her husband and her new responsibilities," the physician hypothesizes, "she hasn't taken notice of the symptoms yet," even as he says this, his expression is doubtful. "But," he continues, "what I believe is most likely is that she knows, but has chosen not to disclose the information for now."

Merlin gapes at him.

"But not even to the court physician? Why?"

Gaius shrugs. "We would have to ask her."

The warlock nods along, thoughts flying.

Merlin can clearly see it. A small child with eyes as kind as Gwen's and with a smile as broad as Arthur's. A child who would inherit their parents hopes and dreams. A child who would one day rule Camelot.

* * *

That night, Merlin lies awake on his bed staring at the ceiling for hours.

After so many weeks barely speaking a word, the conversations he had that day felt absolutely draining, and left his throat burning.

He pays it no mind, though, too absorbed in Gwen and Gaius' words.

If the queen is indeed expecting, she and the unborn heir will need protecting. Not only during the pregnancy, but also after the birth. Arthur's old enemies will not hesitate to plot against a child of his.

Merlin will have a purpose again.

At such thoughts, Merlin shakes his head viciously. He shouldn't dare hope things like that.

Gwen might not be pregnant, Merlin might not be allowed to remain in Camelot, should the laws not change, Gwen might not want her son or daughter associating with him.

If the laws do change, though, Merlin can't help but wonder, he will need to find a way to interfere more effectively, more openly. Hiding in the shadows, making tree branches fall and giving discreet nudges in the right direction won't cut it anymore.

As his eyelids start to drop, vague plans consolidate in his mind. He thinks he might even have some fun, as strange as the concept of having fun in a world without Arthur in it is.

That night, there are a few less shadows in Merlin's dreams.

* * *

When they talk to her about their suspicions, Gwen initially seems more bothered by Merlin's intrusiveness than by the way he used his magical – and still largely illegal – abilities.

Merlin feels extremely optimistic at this reaction, and can't help but beam at the queen, even as she is shouting at him about boundaries.

"And you… knew this," Gwen asks Merlin, "how exactly?"

Running a hand through his hair in frustration, Merlin searches for words.

"It's hard to explain," he stutters out, "sometimes magic can't really be put into words." At her unimpressed expression, Merlin rushes to say, "I can definitely try, though." He lets out a breath. "I felt... something different coming from you yesterday after the council meeting. I haven't always been as good at it as I am now, but after-after what happened at the Crystal Cave," he trusts Gwen to remember the name from their previous conversation, "certain kinds of magic seem to come more easily now. I felt something in you, something _alive._ At first I feared it was something dark, dangerous, like the Formorroh, but soon I realized it was not. It was good." He finishes awkwardly. After years of avoiding talking about magic with incriminating familiarity, it is mind-boggling to speak so freely to Gwen. Merlin finds he has to repress his instinct to talk hypothetically and distance himself from the conversation.

The queen takes a long time to consider his words. Tenderly, she places her hand against her stomach. Her head is low and her tone quiet when she speaks again.

"Just before you came back," Gwen tells Merlin, "I noticed my time wasn't coming. At first, I thought it was the shock of losing Arthur, but when one week later the other symptoms appeared, I knew." Gwen looks up at them. "I felt impossibly happy when I realized I was carrying Arthur's child," she confesses tearful. "We had been trying for years, unsuccessfully. But I was also incredibly sad to think that he died without ever knowing that he would be a father," a tear escapes her eyes at that, and she expertly brushes it away. Merlin's heart breaks a little.

"I couldn't bare to announce it at court," she explains. "I would be expected to behave a certain way, feel a certain way. And I-I couldn't yet. I had to keep this with myself for a little while longer. Do you understand?"

And Merlin does. Completely. So he leans down and hugs her.

"You are not alone, Gwen," he whispers against her hair. "Not anymore. We are in this together."

She lets herself lean against him.

"Merlin," she calls after they have parted, "that world you envisioned?"

He nods once.

"I want this child to be born in that world," she says determinedly.

* * *

The following weeks are bustling with preparations and plans. Merlin, Gwen and, more often than not, Gaius meet daily to talk strategies. At some point, the queen insists that Sir Leon joins their small council, and soon the tiny table in Gaius' workroom feels overcrowded.

"He was Arthur's most trusted knight," she said a fortnight after the decisive conversation in the physician's chambers, "Leon deserves to _know_ , Merlin. And besides," Gwen continued as Merlin opened his mouth to say something, "if we are doing this, we will need his help."

Still, Merlin remained reticent. Leon had been Camelot's knight ever since Uther ruled, and the old king's beliefs had always seemed well-rooted in him. The warlock doubted Leon's reaction would be a good one, if told he had been made a fool for years.

The decision was taken out of Merlin's hands, however, when a few days later, Leon caught him red-handedly performing magic. And in the queen's presence, no less.

Merlin was in Gwen's private chambers, an occurrence which was becoming increasingly more frequent, as the two friends who had largely distanced themselves when Gwen's social status changed, and between whom the recent revelations created strains that hadn't been there before, worked to develop mutual trust and renew the affection they had always felt to one another. If their relationship still wasn't the easy camaradage they'd had before, it was slowly moving towards something similar. Merlin knew, though, that it would never be like it was before, not after Arthur and all the other losses they faced, not to mention the years of deceit in Merlin's part and Gwen's new position and responsibilities.

Still, they had taken to having supper together, using the time alone to talk freely, reminisce Arthur and generally take a break from all the seriousness of their usual conversations. At the queen's request, the warlock had begun showing her small, harmless forms of magic, and teaching her about the Old Religion. So that she would be able to rule a kingdom that did not treat all magic the same, but that saw the nuances of it.

Soon, it became clear to both Merlin and Gwen how challenging that would be.

"I mean," Merlin was saying, "look at elemental magic."

At that, he raised his hand towards the lit fireplace, as if reaching for it – even though it was several feet away – before bringing it back, palm turned up, bright flames sitting on it, in a harmless but unmistakable show of magic.

It was proof that Gwen was becoming accustomed to it that, even though she was inches away from Merlin's outstretched hand, her only reaction was to raise an eyebrow, as if asking if the showing-off was really necessary.

"A frightened child may accidentally cause a fire using their untrained magic," the warlock elaborated. "But an ill-intentioned sorcerer can provoke a fire on purpose and later claim that it was an accident." He looked expectantly at the queen. "In Uther's reign, both verdicts would be clear: they used magic, so they were guilt. But now-"

"Yes, I see your point, Merlin," Gwen interrupted. "However, I'm sure we will-"

And it was in that precise moment that Sir Leon, unannounced, walked in, looking troubled.

"I apologize for the interruption, Your Majesty, but I must speak to you."

He stopped short at the scene he found. Face betraying the utmost surprise and horror, his gaze narrowed in the flames in Merlin's hand. The warlock, taken completely off guard, stood frozen in place.

Suddenly, Leon's expression morphed into one of fear and rage.

"Sorcerer!" He exclaimed – disgust clear in his voice – throwing out his sword and pointing it threateningly at Merlin. "Step away from the queen or I will cut you through where you stand!"

His words seemed to snap Merlin out of his shock and he hastily let the magic go and jumped away from Gwen.

"How could you?" Leon was shouting heatedly, moving forwards and shoving his sword right in the warlock's face.

"He trusted you more than anyone!" The knight raged on. "He would have died for you, and now you dishonor his memory like this! Threatening his queen with sorcery! How dare you!" And then, to Merlin's absolute horror, Leon's eyes started brimming with unshed tears.

The shock of witnessing the usually fierce and steady knight show such unbidden emotion robbed Merlin of any words he might have used to defend himself. It was Gwen who had to step in to interfere and save the warlock from being stabbed right then.

The tense conversation that followed had been – well – _unpleasant_ was how Merlin later described it to Gaius, trying not to let on how close Leon had truly being from throttling him for bewitching and manipulating the queen. But it all worked out in the end. Mostly.

Even after almost two months, Leon avoids at all costs exchanging more than the most perfunctory words with the warlock. Sometimes Merlin still catches the knight staring at him as if he is an evil puzzle – waiting to be smashed, rather than solved

The warlock is therefore mildly surprised when his reluctant ally directly addresses him halfway through that evening's meeting.

"Merlin," he says quite suddenly.

They are discussing the most crucial aspects of _the plan,_ as Merlin has taken to call it in his head. _The plan_ has the ultimate goal of reestablishing magic to the land, while maintaining peace with the other kingdoms. It is divided into smaller steps, objectives easier to reach.

First, Gwen is to announce she is expecting Arthur's child and heir. Hopefully, such news will consolidate her position in the court, among noble men and women, who although had respected Arthur and his choice to marry a commonborn woman still had misgivings about the future of the kingdom in the hands of a young, grieving, childless widow.

Then, a few weeks later, she will reveal to the public – in an event whose size the four of them are still debating (with Merlin, Gaius and Leon favoring a smaller thing, less prone to attacks or the unpredictable, and Gwen advocating something big, for all the citizens of Camelot) – the role magic had in their last victory against the Saxons, hopefully, opening the way to the idea that magic may not be all evil, and that Uther's stance had been extreme, to the detriment of everyone in the kingdom, not only sorcerers.

Meanwhile, Merlin will be roaming the kingdom, using his magic to help people throughout the lands, hopefully contributing to change people's views towards magic. At the same time, he will look for sorcerers and sorceresses in need of aid and parents of children manifesting magic potenting, offering guidance when necessary.

They are discussing how exactly Merlin is supposed to help these people without jeopardizing their safety and his own when Leon interrupts.

At once, the warlock's gaze snaps to the knight's and their eyes meet across the table.

"This plan of yours," he begins, apparently steeling himself for what he is about to say, "will never work, unless you steer the minds not only of the common folk in the small communities across our territory, but also of the people living in the city of Camelot itself, in particular, the noblemen and women."

"The common people in the country make up the majority of our population," the queen argues.

Sir Leon respectfully inclines his head towards her. "That is true, my Lady, however," he continues, "the highborn families in the city have much influence and are very well-connected politically to be able to sway the public opinion regarding a matter so- _controversial_ as the lift of the ban on magic."

Looking now in Merlin and Gaius' direction, the knight's expression is calm and sure. "You need to have a trustworthy magic user in close contact with the court, showing them what advantages they might gain by supporting this new, risky pro-magic stance."

Merlin feels extremely uncomfortable with the prospect of having to navigate the complicated noble politics, but Gaius and Gwen do not seem at all fazed by what Leon is proposing.

"Sir Leon raises a most relevant concern indeed, Merlin," says the old physician with a thoughtful look on his face. "When Uther started the Purge, he made a point to convince most noble houses of his views on magic, and their support was crucial to provide the men, resources and intelligence that made his endeavor possible."

He fixes his ward with a stern look. "Say what you will of Uther, but he was a brilliant strategist."

 _A_ murderous _brilliant strategist_ , Merlin doesn't say.

"And besides," Gwen places a comforting hand on top of his, distracting him from bitter thoughts, "you said it yourself, Merlin." She smiles at him. "From now on, you are not hiding in the shadows anymore."

Merlin grimaces at that.

"Yes, I know," the warlock mumbles. "I realize I'll have to take a more open role. However," the words come quickly paced, half-rehearsed, so many times he has gone over it the last few weeks, "I still think I can do more good out there, in the villages and settlements. I'm no politician," he states without preamble, "if I try to persuade the court through their power struggles and clever word play I will butcher any chances we have. What I say, I say with actions, I'll say through helping the common folk. To what use is a law approved by noblemen and women, if the people do not believe in its fairness?"

"The law is what separates us from savagery," mutters Sir Leon under his breath.

Gaius' only reaction is to raise his eyebrows.

Gwen furrows her brow. "What are you saying, Merlin?"

"I'm saying that it will fall to you," he says, indicating the queen, "and you," he gestures to Gaius, "to change the minds of the people, here in the heart of Camelot." The warlock pauses briefly, choosing his words. "Gwen, you have already proven yourself to be a resourceful leader, if there is anyone able to sway the council, it is you." The queen acknowledges this with an assertive nod. "Gaius, you have treated these people their entire lives, they trust you implicitly. Not only that, you are also the most knowledgeable person I know in matters of magical lore. If anyone can advocate for its benign uses, it is you." The physician looks somewhat disconcerted, but does not argue.

Leon remains unconvinced. "Say her majesty and Gaius do manage to turn the court's favor toward magic," he poses leerily, "how do you propose to travel through these communities without alerting them to your presence? Surely you are aware that news of a boy," Merlin bristles, but the knight ignores him, "using magic will spread like wildfire. And surely you cannot expect a warming welcome in the villages you reach. You must remember that until we manage to formally lift the ban on magic, its practice is still considered illegal, and if your face is recognized and you are caught, there will be little we can do for you."

The knight appears satisfied with his arguments, while Gwen and Gaius look worried, Merlin, though, grins at them, a little of his old mischievousness leaking through his smile. "It is fortunate then, that mine is not the only face I can wear," he says mysteriously.

Gwen and Leon's faces remain blank, but the physician blanches noticeably.

"Merlin," the old man's tone is warningly. "You talk about difficult, unpredictable magic. Even with all your power…" He doesn't continue.

"What are you two talking about?" The queen demands.

Gaius is opening his mouth to reply, but his ward doesn't wait for him.

The warlock's eyes flash bright gold. Leon startles so badly he just manages to keep his seat. No one notices this, though, for they are all staring at the white haired, long bearded, old man sitting in Merlin's place.

"Pleasure to – ahem – formally make your acquaintance, my Lady, my Lord," croaks the old warlock.

Gaius is shaking his head disapprovingly, while Leon is squinting in faint recognition, and Gwen just looks bewildered.

"Merlin…?" She asks hesitantly.

The old man bows half-mockingly.

"It's Emrys, actually,"

* * *

If Merlin thought he was done with difficult, uncomfortable – if necessary – conversations, he was clearly mistaken.

One afternoon, Leon is training the knights and asks Merlin to fill in for the servant who usually runs about fetching extra swords and bringing water to the men. Just when they are about to start, the First Knight realizes he's forgotten his sword back in the armory and sends the warlock to retrieve it.

As he steps inside the blessedly cool armory, a low voices calls from the corner.

"Hello, Merlin."

The warlock startles so badly he almost trips to the floor. Magic at the ready, he turns to face–

"P-Percival."

The knight smiles grimly. "I couldn't get Leon to tell me what's going on with you," he says, "but I did manage to guilt him into helping me corner you."

Merlin silently curses at the bearded knight, absolutely certain that Leon is doing this to get back at him for the incident with 'Dragoon, the Great'.

"You've been avoiding me," Percival states, not unkindly. The warlock sputters words of denial, but the knight ignores them. "What I'd like to know is–" His words break by the end. "Do you avoid me because you blame me for Gwaine's death," he asks softly, eyes downcast, "or because you fear my reaction to the fact that you have magic?"

At that, Merlin is at a complete loss for words.

"You knew?" He manages to gasp. "How long? Did Lancelot–?"

Percival interrupts him with a definite shake of his head. "After the battle of Camlann, after we witnessed how that old sorcerer saved us, Gwaine and I, we– talked." The strong man breathes deeply and looks right into Merlin's eyes. "We came to the conclusion that the only thing that made sense was that you were the sorcerer."

Merlin gapes at him. "And you were…alright with this?" He asks, trying hard for nonchalant and failing.

"It is as Gwaine said," Percival replies, "magic or no magic, you are our friend, and nothing can change that."

Incredibly relieved, the warlock sags on a nearby bench. To discover that Gwaine had _known_ in the end, and not cared, not hated him, and that Percival accepted him as well lifted a weight off his shoulders that Merlin had not realized to be there. But as his rushing heart calms, something the knight had said comes back to him.

"Why would I blame you for Gwaine's death?" The warlock asks, bewildered at the notion. "It was Morgana who tortured and killed him."

Darkly, the knight looks away.

"It was me who proposed that we went to find Morgana, to finish her off." He laughs humorlessly. "As if she could be killed by mere mortal things such as swords. If we hadn't gone–"

"Percival," Merlin cuts firmly. "You couldn't have known. I don't blame you, and neither does Leon, or Gwen." He pauses, and makes sure that the knight is looking at him when he continues. "And I know Gwaine wouldn't blame you either. So you shouldn't blame yourself."

A single tear escapes Percival's eyes and he ducks his head to hide it.

"Thank you, Merlin," he mumbles.

Warmly, the warlock pats him on the back and turns to leave. Just as he is crossing the threshold, Percival stalls him.

"Merlin," his voice is steady once again. "Sometimes you are wise beyond your years, you know."

The raven-haired man grins at that.

"I have my moments."

* * *

"It won't be possible to hide the truth for much longer, my Lady," Gaius is warning softly. "You are almost reaching the fourth month mark, the signs should become evident at any moment."

Sighing tiredly, Gwen nods. "I know, Gaius."

"People may talk," the physician continues cautiously, "perhaps it would be advisable to-"

"I _know_ , Gaius," the queen snaps irritably.

Merlin follows this conversation at a distance, busy preparing a draught to help ease Gwen's headache. The past few months – with the pregnancy and her sovereign duties and the plans to welcome magic users into the land again – have taken their toll on the young queen.

Quietly, he approaches and hands her the medicine, flashing her a warm smile.

"Thank you, Merlin," she says in response, trying to smile back. Gwen drowns the remedy on one gulp, grimacing at the unpleasant taste.

There is an awkward pause, before Gaius stands up from his place besides the queen and walks towards the door.

"If you will excuse me, your highness," he says formally as he goes, "I must see to my patients of this afternoon." And with that, he departs.

As the door closes behind him, leaving Merlin and Gwen alone in the physician's chambers, the queen's shoulders fall.

"I don't mean to be this– snappish," she murmurs guiltily. "I know all of you are trying to help. But." She seems at a loss for words. "It's hard. Ruling a kingdom. Preparing to be a mother."

She laughs humorlessly.

"I feel like I have no idea what I am doing half of the time," Gwen admits. "I fear I'm making the wrong decisions. I fear I'll be a terrible mother to this child."

Shaking his head emphatically, Merlin kneels in front of her.

"Gwen, stop," he says, taking her hands in his. "You are doing great. The court and the people love you. The crops are prospering. The criminality rate in the city is low. There is peace throughout the lands. The other kingdoms have already agreed to a meeting and the alliances you and Arthur had already established hold strong. Politically and economically, Camelot hasn't seen better days since before either of us were born."

The warlock makes sure Gwen is meeting his gaze when he continues.

"And you will be a wonderful mother. I'm sure of it." He grins at her. "After all, you have plenty of experience, that with mothering me and the knights around."

With an expression of mock indignation, Gwen slaps his hands away.

"I do not!" She retorts, a small smile growing in her lips, much to Merlin's relief, who hated to see his friend so melancholic.

The warlock just laughs back.

Gwen's expression suddenly changes, going from grudgingly amused to utterly surprised.

"Merlin," she breathes, hands flying to her abdomen. For one terrible, heartstopping seconds the warlock fears she will say there is something wrong.

"I think I just felt the baby move."

She smiles a dazzling smile, all the lines of grief and worry that accumulated around her eyes and mouth are suddenly gone, and she is a young and carefree girl once again.

The queen snatches Merlin's hand and places it on her belly, over her elegant dress.

"Do you feel it?" She asks in an amazed whisper.

By the Gods, he does. The warlock feels so absolutely privileged and honored to have the opportunity to share this moment with Gwen, he knows there are tears pooling in his eyes, but he doesn't even care.

"Gwen- Gwen," his voice is heavy with emotion. "Can I?" He only looks at her, and he doesn't know how, but she knows what he means instantly.

"Of course, Merlin."

So he reaches towards her with his magic, hugging her with it, trying to touch the little thing pulsing with life just below their fingers.

When that small being seems not only to recognize his presence, but to nudge back instinctually, almost like in greeting, Merlin is from that moment on, completely smitten.

"Oh, Gwen. She's beautiful."

* * *

Next chapter:

Merlin leaves the safety of Camelot to do what he never dared before: practice magic out in the open. Albion is full of surprises, and the young warlock might get more than he bargained for.


	2. From city to province

Chapter summary: Merlin has left the comfort and safety of Camelot to do what he knows best: help others using his gifts. He will find out, however, that it's not only people who may need his aid.

* * *

A/N: I'm very happy to present you with the second chapter! More action and magic in this one XD  
Again, many thanks to Amlia, my beta. (She is the reason there are no major plot holes in this fic. Though there might be some typos haha)

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter 2: From city to province**

* * *

Merlin is there when the queen makes the announcement that she is expecting.

The citizens are summoned to the courtyard. Many people simply look curious, but most appear downright worried. They all grin and laugh with joy and relief when Gwen shares the good news. That evening, the people celebrate throughout the city, music can be heard well into the night. The following weeks – even as the days grow shorter and the nights colder with the approach of winter – the atmosphere in Camelot seems lighter, more hopeful than it has been since Arthur's death.

Merlin is not there when the queen makes the announcement about the continued progress towards leniency regarding magic due to an 'unknown' sorcerer's crucial role in defeating the Saxons and Morgana.

He knows what she will say, he helped write that speech himself.

'It has come to my attention,' Gwen will begin, calm and sure of herself, 'that magic was used to turn the tide of the Battle of Camlann and ensure our victory.'

And so it will go on.

The warlock, however, is by then far away from the city, journeying through smalls villages, disguising himself and doing magic – for the first time in his life out in the open for anyone to see. The sensation is exhilarating.

In one of the most memorable occasions, Merlin is passing by Monmouth, a settlement near the shores of the river that crosses the forest of Ascetir, when he decides to forgo making camp in the woods, as he normally would, and instead rents a bed at an inn by the edges of the village.

Wearing the face of a strongly built, blond haired and quite handsome man – who may or maynot bear a slight resemblance to Sir Percival – Merlin supps among the other patrons in the inn, huddled around the fireplace, trading stories and news.

"I swear to you," a broad bald man called Barnett is saying, gesticulating with his hands, one of which still holds a mug of ale, "my wife was there, visiting her sister in Rockfield. Saw it with her own eyes, she did!"

Another man snorts loudly. He is thin and tall, raven haired like Merlin, though is eyes are dark brown. He'd introduced himself as Elmer. "Barmy old woman, your wife must be," Elmer says disdainfully. "Have to be barmy to believe a sorcerer would do anything that wasn't in their own best interests."

Barnett takes a large swig of his mug. "I don't know nothing of the interests of sorcerers," he admits unconcerned, "but I know that before that old lady saw to the boy, the lad was a goner, and the day after he was running in the fields, like nothing had happened." The fat man nods to himself, looking into the flames. "If there ever was a good sorcerer, she was one."

"Pity they tried to have her burned afterwards, then," quips a young man, who'd barely reached maturity. The others laugh. All except from Barnett, who looks mildly affronted, and Merlin, who hides a grimace in his own mug of ale. Running away with your skirts on fire had _not_ been a nice experience. And though he does not regret saving young Darren from the head wound that was sure to take his life, Merlin thinks he can do without the resulting commotion and persecution.

"Only some did," the warlock mumbles to himself, his current deeper voice carrying his words despite the raucous of his companions.

"What did you say?" Asks one of them, Merlin hadn't caught his name.

Now all pairs of eyes are staring at the warlock, even the old barwoman behind the counter seems to be listening in. Merlin flushes slightly.

"I-I mean," he stutters, "I heard that only a few of the villagers tried to have the sorceress killed. Most wanted to leave her alone, and a few women even defended her against the assailants."

The sight of Darren's mother, still tearful, but unbelievably ferocious pointing a fish knife to a villager who demanded Merlin's head, shielding him, or rather, _her_ would always warm his heart.

The group is quiet for a moment, before Elmer snorts again. "Barmy, the lot of them."

A few of the men laugh, but most look thoughtful. The barwoman is glaring daggers at the back of Elmer's head.

Merlin opens his mouth to say something – he's not sure exactly _what_ yet – when a scream cuts through the quiet night. They all hold still for a moment, before rushing out of the inn, looking for the source of the panicked cries that seem to be spreading.

The moment Merlin steps out of the door, smoke fills his nostrils and makes his eyes water. Coughing, he covers his nose and mouth with his handkerchief – which never leaves him, no matter who he is disguising as – and runs towards the burning house just around the corner. The neighbors surround the hut, shock and horror and fear maring their faces. In the chaos, people are calling for help, for water, for someone to do something.

The wooden house burns like a furnace, and Merlin wonders what was stored inside to make the flames so vicious and alive.

"Was there anyone inside?" He shouts at a woman in her nightclothes, shaking besides him.

She shudders. "It's the smith's workshop," she says, without taking her eyes from the fire, "he lives there with his daughter."

At those words, Merlin pales. No cries come from within the house, if the occupants were there when the fire started, either they'd managed to escape already, or…

"I'm going in there," he says to no one in particular.

He runs towards the burning door. A few people shout at him to stop, the barwoman, who had followed her customers outside, even goes as far as grabbing Merlin's arm, but he easily shakes her off.

With a flash of his eyes, he bursts the door open and leaps inside. In the back of his mind he takes notice of the cries of surprise coming from outside that follow his actions, but he is more worried with locating the smith and the girl.

" _Acwence þa bælblyse_ ," he mutters behind his handkerchief, making the flames nearest to him momentarily subside. Despite this, the temperature is rising, and Merlin sees that the structure of the house is crumbling. He has but seconds. Desperations starts creeping in.

As he stumbles to the wall the farther from the windows, the warlock hears muffled crying. His eyes lock in a desk in flames. " _Færblæd wawe,_ " he says sharply, and wind blows strongly, dissipating the fire on and around the table. Underneath it, Merlin sees the crumpled form of a man.

With a wave of his hand, the warlock lifts the man into the air, where he remains motionless. There is too much smoke to see if the man is still alive.

Merlin kneels on the floor and reaches for the small girl curling on the floor, still crying.

"P-papa, p-papa," she is mumbling between coughs.

The warlock lifts her into his arms as if she weighs nothing and heads to the exit, her father trailing behind them, held up by the tendril of Merlin's magic not occupied with keeping them alive.

They are mere meters from the door when the roof creaks ominously and clabords start falling all around the trio, blocking the path to the outside. Smoke fills Merlin's lungs, he is becoming dizzy with the lack of air, his steps falter, his hold on the magic keeping the flames at bay slackens.

Losing hope, the warlock realizes he is running out of options, and turns to his lart resort: to try and transport himself and his charges outside of the house. He's never tried to do it with other people before, and has no idea the effect it may have on them, but it is certainly preferable than to die burning and choking.

He has just closed his eyes to concentrate, when he hears shouting coming from outside the house. He is hard pressed to believe his ears.

" _Ic hātte cweċeþ nú!_ " A woman orders, and the blackened wood blocking Merlin's way is thrown aside.

Without pausing to wonder at this unexpected turn of events, the warlock runs outside, to the blessed cold night air.

He drops to the floor unceremoniously when he is far enough from the danger, bringing the smith and his daughter with him, panting.

Through the ashes in his eyes, he looks at the barwoman just besides him, hands only now lowering.

"You!" He exclaims. Merlin doesn't know if in surprise, gratefulness or indignation.

"Me," the sorceress grimaces back, shooting an apprehensive look towards the villagers gathering around them, who have expressions of utter shock in their faces.

Barnett, the man from the tavern, gapes at her.

"Hertha..? You are… a sorceress?" He apparently can't believe what he just witnessed. "But we've known one another for years! How come I didn't know?"

She snorts. "Couldn't very well announce it to the four winds, now, could I?" The barwoman glares at him. "Or you think I wanted to be burnt at the stake for healing minor injuries and occasionally moving things without touching them?"

Merlin, privately, could definitely relate to that.

Then, Hertha turns her attention back at the man and girl lying unconscious on the floor.

" _Hæle_ _þá bærnett_ ," she says loudly, apparently unconcerned with hiding her abilities now that half the village watched her perform magic. Her eyes glow brightly, and the burns along the smith's arms fade away.

Merlin, having recovered from the surprise of finding another sorcerer willing to risk exposure to help others, grins broadly at her.

"Thank you," he tells her in earnest.

The sorceress just shrugs, busy attending to the girl's wounds now.

Satisfied that Hertha seems to know what she's doing, Merlin redirects his attention to the still burning workshop.

Without muttering a single word, or pausing to look at the bystanders' reaction, the warlock calls upon the clouds and makes it rain torrentially on the flames, extinguishing them in minutes.

Possibly carried away with the rush of having saved two lives, and discovering a fellow magic user, Merlin completely forgoes caution and restraint. Playing with magic he had never dreamed of performing, he raises both hands towards the wet ruins and starts chanting.

" _Ic hātte_ _þæt hús edstaðelung eftbétung_ ," he makes up the spell on the spot, knowing the second he finishes saying the words that it will work.

As his blue eyes turn gold, the ashes seem to evaporate from the debris, revitalizing the wood. The walls jump back into place, the door and windows following suit. The smell of smoke and destruction dissipates. The night is quiet and dark again, with only the torches along the other houses providing light. The smith's hut is whole and unscathed, as if nothing had transpired that evening.

Gasps of fright and wonder can be heard all around Merlin. The villagers seem to be divided between running away in fear because of all the magic used, and cheering the unexpected miracle despite the magic undeniably used – most tend towards the latter. The sorceress is looking at him with a mixture of admiration and disbelief is her expression.

"I had never heard of a spell that could do such things," she says, eyes wide.

"I don't think there had been one, before tonight," Merlin replies lightly, still drunk with magic, gazing at his work.

Hertha frowns at him, as if finally regarding him for the first time.

"Who are you?"

The warlock turns to consider her question carefully.

"You know what?" He tilts his head, as if trying to see something from a new angle. "I might really be Emrys."

* * *

A fortnight later, in a settlement miles away, well into what used to be Cenred's Kingdom and is now under Camelot's rule and protection (though King Lot would argue for his right over the region), Merlin hears news about the effects his actions are having at court.

"There is talk about a new law to allow the controlled usage of magic back in the lands," a merchant is saying to his colleague, as they arrange their stalls in the city market. "Heard from the man who makes the queen's gows himself."

"What?" The other man's tone is incredulous. "Queen Guinevere? Wife to late Arthur Pendragon? Son to late Uther Pendragon?"

"Just the very same," the first man replies, nodding.

The duo continue their discussion as Merlin moves on. Now as a young boy of no more than 12, he has to strain his neck to see the items on the tallest stalls. This is only the second time the warlock disguises as a child, and he is still undecided on the merits of such cover, as a large woman all but walks over him on the way to the fruits stand.

Merlin decides on an apple for breakfast and – as he has his cheeks pinched by the merchant woman ('such a sweet boy! You may have two for the price of one') – he thinks that Gwaine would approve of both the fruit and his hilarious disguise.

The young – truly young – warlock scurries away from the market, heading towards what passes as town square in the tiny village. Some kind of performance seems to be taking place there. Merlin hears clapping and whistling. Curious, he cuts through the gathering crowd to see what the fuss is about.

"Come closer, friends," a raspy male voice bellows. "And see for yourselves!" The man pauses dramatically, and Merlin catches a glimpse of him from his precarious position behind a couple holding hands. "From the darkest, most dangerous places in all the Five Kingdoms, we bring you the most exotic, horrific creatures you will ever have the pleasure of seeing!"

At the man's back, hang large curtains, supported by unsteady pillars. They appear to conceal whatever 'creatures' the presenter is extolling.

"Here!" Shouts the man. "I give you now a mere taste of what you are about to witness."

And at that, a pair of assistants hiding behind the curtains step out, carrying between them an enormous bird cage. With difficulty, they hold it high up in the air, for all the crowd to marvel at.

"This, my friends, is nothing less than a Firebird," he says magnanimously.

People are gasping and screaming, those on the front rows seem to take a few steps backwards, for suddenly Merlin feels compressed between bodies trying to move in conflicting directions.

The warlock is completely distracted from the discomfort, however, when his eyes set upon the creature crampledly stuck inside the metal bars.

A bird with the likes of which Merlin has never seen before stands, motionless, in the center of its – comparatively – small cage. It is the size of a large swan, though its neck is shorter, like a falcon's, and its tail is incredibly long, like the peacocks the warlock has only seen in pictures in library books. Its feathers are an impossible shade of scarlet, all except for those on its tail, which are bright gold. Its black, endless gaze locks with Merlin's, and the boy knows this is a creature of great power and ancient magic – those to rival a dragon's.

What makes the people tremble in apprehension, though, are the flames flickering throughout the bird's body, unbelievably hot, while apparently harmless to the creature, as it remains unburned.

How that weak excuse of a man had manage to hold such bird prisoner was a mystery to the warlock.

And as swiftly as the cage was carried out, it is carried back in, disappearing from view.

"Only one coin, one coin only to get access to this and many other remarkably rare beasts!" The presenter is shouting, gesticulating for the people to form a line to pay up. After handing in the coins, they are let through the curtains supposedly obscuring other caged animals.

Outraged at this appalling treatment of a magical creature (and animals in general!), Merlin ducks under the bodies excitedly moving forwards, and, with a muted incantation, turns invisible.

Unnoticed, he easily slips past the men spread around the spectacle, outwardly keeping a lookout to make sure no gatecrashers do as the warlock just did.

Inside, he is met with the terrible smell of dung, rotten food and death. About a dozen cages lie around, forming three rows. The biggest one is inhabited by what appears to be a horse, with a painted wooden cone glued to its forehead, in a pathetic imitation of a unicorn. It the smallest one lies a deformed rat sprouting two tails. In the others, there are a mixture of sadly malformed animals and clear fakes of magical creatures, such as a lizard with bird wings attached to it under the label of 'wyvern'.

The only true magical creature appears to be that scarlet bird, whose cage now sits on top of a pedestal placed just besides the 'unicorn'.

As Merlin approaches it, drawn by the magic he can clearly feel coming from it, both people and most animals seem oblivious to his presence. Not the bird. It follows his progress with appraisal in its eyes, apparently unaffected by the illusionment. Oddly, Merlin feels the sudden urge to prove himself to the creature, as if it was a particularly hard mentor to please.

When he finally stands before it, Merlin's diminuted height and the pedestal supporting the cage insure that their eyes are leveled. Blue and black clash, and the warlock reaches eagerly with his magic to meet the creature's.

Only to be blocked by something sharp, something so cold that it burns, something that makes his magic recoil in disgust and leaves a bitter taste under his tongue.

With his fingers now, Merlin touches the iron bars around the bird, then he reaches to the lock. It is an inconspicuous thing, but he can feel an evil presence in it, a magic so dark and corrupt the warlock can't stand to be in contact with it for long.

 _Tóspringe_ , the warlock thinks, holding one hand towards the lock on the cage.

Nothing happens.

" _Min strengest miht hate þe tospringan!_ " He mutters out loud, to no effect.

Merlin realizes it will take more than his usual unlocking spells to break this lock. Slowing time all around him, so that his actions shall not be disturbed, he closes his eyes in the unnatural silence he created.

Concentrating with all his might, and calling upon the strongest raw, pure magic he's ever used, he starts chanting.

" _Ic hātte_ _déorfald gánian, befrēo séo héahgesceaft se feðerberend!"_ He knows his eyes shine the brightest gold and his voice is raised, and he is glad everyone around them is frozen into place, unhearing, unseeing, uncaring.

Exhausted, Merlin sags where he stands, supporting his weight against the bars of the fake unicorn's cage. He lets his hold on time go, and barely holds on to his disguise and illusionment. Noise and movement erupt everywhere. It's rare from him to feel drained after performing magic and the sensation is something he hopes not to have to become used to. Expectant, he looks up to the bird.

And is sorely disappointed. The lock holds strong, the bars impenetrable. The warlock knows the creature behind them is bitterly resigned, even though all it does to express its emotions is blink at him, once.

"I'll find a way to free you, I swear," he vows, resolute. "I'll not abandon you."

The bird just looks at him for the longest time. Then, in the openest display of movement Merlin had witnessed from it, bows its head.

* * *

Under the cover of night – and back to his normal size and age – Merlin returns to the macabre exposition. The sky is cloudy, so the warlock conjures up a glowing orb of light to guide his steps. He had put that hateful man and his entourage into a deeper sleep, lest they suddenly wake up and thwart his plans.

It is true that the warlock had considered another course of action than to surreptitiously set free all the creatures imprisoned by the gang. In that plan, there were a number of explosions, panicked fleeing on the crow's part, and a victorious run for liberty on the animals' part. Also, there might or might not have been a heartfelt speech about respecting all forms of life in the world, on Merlin's part.

He discarded that particular idea, reminding himself of Gaius' parting words to him, and his advice of 'don't be an idiot, Merlin'.

Therefore, the warlock quietly slips behind the curtains and – glancing around to make sure there is no one there – mutters the classic " _tóspringe"_ under his breath, instantly opening up all cages.

Most animals, though awaked by his actions, don't seem in any particular rush to escape their prisons. All except for the double-tailed rat – which scurries away into the night – remain stubbornly inside their cages, as if the time in captivity had robbed them of their will to be free. Merlin's heart clenches a little at the thought.

Touching each animals mind with his own, the warlock gives a gentle nudge, a small push. Wouldn't it be better to try out your chances outside this dreadful place? Wouldn't it be better to have more space to move, to be able to choose one's own food, and not be stared at by inane humans?

Slowly, the most uncanny caravan of animals are marching towards the forest. Natural prey and predator walk side by side and the faster animals seem to measure their strides to match those of the slowest. Merlin grins broadly at the sight.

Then, he turns his attention to the remaining prisoner. With a flash of his eyes he makes the magical cage rise up in the air and follow him outside. The warlock heads to the woods. Although he would greatly appreciate watching the consequence of his actions, he has a precious charge to worry about, and cannot linger unnecessarily. By first light, they will be long gone, and the village will be left to wonder about the mysterious disappearances.

* * *

The 'firebird', as it turns out, is the quietest traveling companion Merlin has ever shared campfires with.

Forced to avoid human company – a necessary sacrifice, if one is carrying a clearly magical bird who more often than not bursts inexplicably into flames – the warlock keeps to the forests and swamps and grasslands.

He uses the time not looking for powerful unlocking sleeps in his magic book – one of the few possessions he had brought with him in this solitary mission – connecting with nature and its magic.

Merlin finds that once he stops and _listens_ the trees and plants appear to have a lot to say. They like to sing him songs of ancient times of magic and wonder, and the warlock finds he likes to brush his focused, willed magic against their tender, regnant, diffuse one.

He also discovers that animals, in turn, like to find him, apparently attracted by his magic. Quiet herds of deer surround him shyly, fluffy squirrels jump on his shoulders playfully, even wolves shake their tails at him when they meet.

A bit astonished at all this attention, Merlin wonders what Arthur would say if he saw his clumsy manservant now, drawing out all the prey that a hunter could possibly ask for.

The warlock laughs a little, remembering how he used to – unwillingly and willingly both – hinder Arthur's attempts at hunting. It's becoming easier to think about his king without feeling drown in bitter and anguished emotions.

The magical bird, though still helplessly stuck in its cage, seems to thrive on being around other creatures. It still won't utter a single sound, and it rarely responds to Merlin's attempts at interaction, but the bird seems to try and set itself on fire less often, and the warlock thinks he almost feels a sense of _hope_ coming from it.

The feeling increases tenfold the morning they are joined by a couple of unicorns – true, magical, pure unicorns – for breakfast.

Merlin has only waken up and is absentmindedly fixing himself some porridge, when he hears a twig break somewhere to his right.

As he has set up wards to warn him in case anyone intending them harm approaches their camp, he knows that either their visitor is harmless or that they are powerful enough to evade this enchantments.

When he turns, the warlock is faced with one starlight white full-grown unicorn, and a golden foal. Merlin is struck mute at the sight.

The firebird, meanwhile, chirps happily, even going as far as trying to flap its wings in their confined space.

The foal responds well to this, for it neighs in delight and comes nearer to the cage, curiously sniffing at it.

Though Merlin had met a unicorn a few years previously (in a hunt he'd rather not remember) he had never seen a foal. The golden shade surprises the warlock a little, as does the small unicorn's carefree temper, which certainly contrasts with its mother solemn air.

"Hello," he says with a formal head bow to the adult unicorn.

The unicorn returns his greeting with a slight tilt to its head.

The magical bird and the foal seem to be too busy playing among themselves to pay any attention to the other pair.

"Ah, children," Merlin jokes as he starts eating his food. He chooses to take the unicorn's unimpressed neigh as a sign of agreement.

The warlock is long finished, and has been amusedly watching the eager magical creatures interact, when another figure steps into his camp.

An old man, draped in hags and carrying an impressive staff surveys the scene seemingly content.

"Emrys," he greets.

"Anhora," the warlock responds, getting up. "It has been a while."

The mysterious keeper of unicorns gazes at him unnervingly. "I could not say. Time is but a relative construct," he says, much to Merlin's discomfort.

"It is true, though," he amends, "that much has changed from the time we last spoke." His eyes seem to be far away. "Then, you still hid from others and from yourself. Now, you are finally discovering who you truly are. Then, your prince was still alive, all but an untried foal himself. Now, he rests in Avalon, though his name is known and respected throughout Albion. Then, a magical creature had been killed by his actions – and your innaction. Now," he glances at the imprisoned bird, "you seek to free another magical creature from an equally terrible fate. Then," Anhora pauses and locks his eyes with Merlin's again, "the Pendragon line ended with the golden-haired prince. Now, a fair princess is heir to the throne."

The young warlock takes a second to process the cryptic words. Then, he sputters nonsensically at the unexpected news.

"So Gwen has– But. Wow." Merlin takes a deep breath. "I didn't realize I have been gone for so long," he whispers to himself.

"Time is–" Anhora starts.

"–but a relative construct, yeah, you said," the young warlock interrupts, distractedly. "How did you come about this news?" He asks curiously. "And why are you telling me this?"

The keeper of the unicorns stares impassively at him.

"Those of us tied to the land," he explains, "are always aware of the comings and goings of the foretold creatures into and off this plane. We knew when you were born, Emrys," the old warlock reveals, "and we knew when the Once and Future King perished."

Merlin nods, not quite in understanding, more like in resignation.

"As for the reason I come to bring you such tidings," Anhora continues, unconcerned, "it is simple. You have a choice to make. And wisely must you choose, for the wrong choices will yield grave consequences to all of Albion," he says enigmatically.

At that, the young warlock blanches. Always, _always,_ they tell him to choose. And time and time again he appears to choose wrong. What terrible effects will his actions bring now? He asks himself in silent despair.

Lost in thought, Merlin's gaze flutters to the unicorns and the bird. They are all staring back at him, gravity in their eyes. The warlock can't stand their gazes, and turns back to the old man.

Only to find him gone.

After a moment of astonishment and, mostly, indignation that Anhora is still able to completely slip past his detection, Merlin remembers something crucial.

"Wait!" He calls towards the shadows of trees. "You didn't tell me what my choices are!"

But even as the warlock says this, he knows it's futile. The keeper of the unicorns is long gone.

Dejectedly, Merlin sits down again. The small unicorn seems to realize his disquiet, for it approaches shyly and brushes its muzzle against the human's cheek, in a soft caress. This makes the warlock smile a little, and he pets the foal's golden crest.

"Thanks," he murmurs.

And then, just as swiftly as they had come, both unicorns depart, disappearing behind the tree line without a single sound.

Glancing towards his remaining companion, Merlin's smile turns wary.

"It seems it's just you and me again."

The bird is, once more, deadly silent.

* * *

Merlin travels have brought him closer to his hometown than he's been in years. Still, he skirted around it, taking refuge in other small villages instead.

Now, however, with such ominous foreknowledge, he cannot resist the temptation the comfort of hugging his mother represents, and sets course to Ealdor.

The warlock is eager to return to Camelot to meet Gwen and Arthur's daughter. He has not forgotten his promise to his current charge, however, and knows he cannot go back before discovering a way to free the magical bird.

Merlin can't help but wonder, despite himself, who the little princess will resemble most. In his dreams, he sees a golden-haired, blue-eyed sweet baby girl babbling incoherently at him, beaconing him to come closer. Whenever he is about to take her on his arms, though, he wakes up, a feeling of longing lingering on the back of his heart.

They reach the small village – located in what used to be the border of Cenred's kingdom with Camelot, and now is encompassed by the latter – just before sunrise.

The fields are empty and the streets silent. Merlin's illusionment spell is more of a precaution than a necessity, as he takes sure steps to the door of his mother's hut and knocks.

He hears movement inside. Someone approaching the locked door.

"Mother, it's me," the warlock whispers.

The woman who answers the door cannot possibly be his mother.

Her hair is streaked with grey, so much, that is hard to find any remains of her once sleek brown locks. Her eyes are tired and sunken on her skull, giving her a moribund appearance. Lines mar her face, making her look old and frail.

As his mother envelops him in a hug, Merlin can't help but notice how she seems to tremble in his arms. Tears pool in his eyes, and he desperately tries to blink them away.

"I should have come sooner," he mumbles against her hair, inhaling the familiar smell of safety and love.

"Merlin, my boy, my son," she says in his ear, and he can hear the smile on her lips. "It is so good to see you."

Years of having to care for a child who constantly defied the realms of impossibility made sure that Hunith barely batted an eyelash when Merlin slipped past her with a large cage and a burning bird tailing him.

"... would your friend like something to eat?" She asks, after a few seconds of marveling at the strange creature.

Merlin shrugs. "I've tried feeding it fruit, grain and meat. Doesn't take it. Seems to live on–well, magic alone."

Hunith nods in understanding, and places a bowl of porridge in his hands.

"Does he at least have a name?" She asks in curiosity.

The warlock opens his mouth but no sounds come out. How come in all the weeks they had been together Merlin hadn't thought to name it?

"Not yet," he admits, glancing at the bird, who is glaring at him. "I'll think of something good!" He promises hurriedly.

His mother seems amused by his antics. "Oh, my boy, you haven't changed at all," she says, smiling.

"Actually..." Merlin grimaces. _If only you knew, Mother._

They talk long into the day, having much catching up to do.

The warlock learns that the past winter had been hard on Ealdor, with many people getting sick, and a number of children and old people dying. His mother had been bedridden for weeks, and had barely escaped with her life.

"My old body isn't the same as it used to be," she admits, but shakes her head resolutely when Merlin mentions moving her to the city, to live with Gaius.

"You could help him attend patients and prepare remedies," he insists.

"My place is here, Merlin," is her response. "I have taken an apprentice of sorts – a girl to act as healer when I'm–," her words falter almost imperceptibly, "when I can't work anymore. But she still has much to learn. And as old and slow as I might be, people still come to me when the children get sick and the women are about to deliver. I can't abandon them."

The warlock wants to argue, but the recognizes the determined look on her eyes – he inherited it after all – and knows it's a lost cause.

"I understand," he says quietly, holding her hands. "And I'm impossibly proud of being your son, for that."

Hunith laughs. "My boy, I'm the one who should be proud," she tells him, smiling. When she smiles, the years seem to lift from her shoulders, and she looks just as she did when Merlin was small enough to hide behind her skirts. "It is you who became advisor to kings and queens, who destroyed armies, saved lives, helped bring peace to the land." At his abashed flush, his mother ruffles his hair playfully.

They drink in each other's presence for a moment.

"Your father would be so proud of you," she says finally, eyes watering. "I wish he was here to see the amazing person you grew up to be. I wish we hadn't had to part with him as we did."

Merlin's throat closes at that. They rarely, if ever, discuss Balinor.

"There are no goodbyes," he repeats, "for he will always be." _As I will always be._

* * *

Merlin hadn't realized, but he'd grown weary of all his travels and disguises. He liked meeting new people and wearing different faces, he liked using his magic to do good. But he also missed being just Merlin.

So they stay with Hunith for a while.

And though the firebird sometimes seems a bit tired of being cooped in all the time – he isn't exactly easy to take together for a stroll in the fields –, he appears to put up with it, for his human friend's sake.

A couple of days after their arrival, an official messenger comes bearing reports from the city of Camelot.

It is late afternoon, and Merlin is tending to an injured horse – the only horse the village currently possesses – when he hears shouting coming from the main street. Worried that something may be amiss, he quickly finishes off with the animal and heads towards the commotion he can see in forming in the distance.

A man bearing Camelot's colors sits atop his horse as the crowd gathers around him. He holds a piece of parchment in his hands.

"I come here today to bring the village of Ealdor official news from the royal court of Camelot," he announces, quieting the whispering people. "Exactly one week ago," he continues, apparently reading from the parchment, "her majesty, Queen Guinevere, gave birth to Princess Ygraine, the second of her name, heir to the throne and daughter of late King Arthur Pendragon, who perished heroically at the Battle of Camlann, giving his life to save his people."

There are cries of joy at the news and people start conferring with each other excitedly. Ever since Arthur had come to Ealdor, against his own father's orders, to help protect the village, he had been well-loved by its people. The news of his death had saddened the community deeply.

"Moreover," the messenger interrupts the gossiping forcefully, "it is the queen's desire that all citizens of the great Kingdom of Camelot be informed of an important change in the laws concerning the practice of sorcery and all magical arts." At that, a hushed silence spreads through the crowd. Merlin feels a knot tighten in his stomach, and his fists close involuntary, trying to contain the sheer _hope_ growing inside him.

"As of yesterday," the messenger continues, ignoring the effect of his last words, "having magic is no longer considered an offense punishable automatically by death. All suspected sorcerers and sorceresses will have the right to a trial, and will be dealt punishment according to the severity of their crimes." Frowns adorn more than one face in the crowd at that, but no one seems prepared to argue.

The man's words become sharp. "No misdeed or act practiced in ill-faith will be tolerated. Should a sorcerer be proven to have used their abilities to cheat, harm, abuse, or otherwise wrong someone else willingly, such sorcerer will pay dearly." People nod approvingly at this, and the knight looks up from the written words and meets the eyes of the onlookers. "This is the queen's will. Her word is law. Long live the queen."

At that, shouts of 'long live the queen' echo in the small village. Some more enthusiastic than others, but none as passionate as Merlin's.

* * *

"I find the name Guinevere chose for the princess quite fitting," Hunith is saying over supper that evening, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Ygraine...," she mutters to herself. "We are turning full circle now."

Merlin nods along, mouth full of stew, a smile still on his slips. He hasn't been able to stop grinning since that afternoon.

"And even if the ban on magic hasn't been lifted yet, Hunith says, "the queen is clearly working up towards it."

"It's so...odd how things are," his mother continues, mind far away, "Arthur's birth was followed by so much fear and spilt blood, and now his daughter's is accompanied by such hope for the magical folk."

Hunith smiles proudly at him. "And it's all thanks to you, Merlin."

The warlock chokes a little on his food. "Well," he says when he has recuperated, an embarrassed smile on his face, "all those prophecies and cryptic words about 'young warlocks' and 'two sides of the same coin' and 'bring magic back to Albion' couldn't be all bollocks, right?" He jokes.

"Language!" His mother admonishes, hitting him with a wooden spoon, but Merlin notices the smile hasn't left her lips.

* * *

When Merlin can no longer approach the firebird without being severly glared at, the warlock accepts it's time to leave.

"Alright, alright," he says, one night, after Hunith has already gone to bed. "I'll tell Mum tomorrow, and we can leave the day after."

At the bird's unimpressed stare, the young man admits defeat. "Tomorrow night, then," he compromises, to the creature apparent satisfaction. "Damn, you are hard to bargain with," Merlin comments, hand flying through his hair. The bird looks proud of itself.

"But honestly," he continues in whispers, preparing for bed, "I don't know what you expect will happen when we leave. I've been trying different spells to free you for ages, and nothing seems to work," he says, frustrated. "I haven't found anything in my books, either," Merlin adds, as if expecting the bird to argue that he hasn't done all he can. "And I go through them every night, in case there is something I missed."

The bird inclines its head milimetrically.

Merlin snorts. "I hope you are right."

* * *

As it turns out, they don't get to wait till nightfall.

It is early, and Merlin is working up his courage to inform his mother of their plans, when terrified screams pierce the tranquil morning.

The warlock tries to tell Hunit to _stay inside_ , but she is out of the door before he has the chance to open his mouth. He takes half a second to gape after her, before following at her heels.

"Dragons! Dragons!" Panicked voices shout, pointing at the sky in at least six different directions.

 _Dragons..?_

Merlin casts his magical awareness _around_ and _up_ and discovers the people are not exactly wrong.

About half a dozen wyverns seem to be converging right above the village. Their screeches are unmistakable, as are they bright red eyes and black scales, which seem to reflect the sunlight.

As one, they turn in the air, and head towards the ground, right where Merlin, Hunith and a number of other villagers stand. People scream and run for cover. The warlock shoves his mother aside, and a man nearby pulls her to safety.

"Merlin!" Hunith cries, trying to fight off the man holding on to her.

But soon the warlock loses sight of his mother, for six snarling wyverns surround him. In the distance, Merlin hears people gasping, but he focuses on summoning his Dragonlord abilities, the only thing he knows might give him a chance to dispel the aggressive creatures.

" ** _Aposýromai,_** " he orders in the guttural sounds of dragon speech. " ** _Den tha vlápsete eména í dikó mou._** "

For a moment, it looks like it didn't work, and the creatures are about to bounce on him, then, their posture changes. Reluctantly, forced by the magic binding them, the wyverns bow their heads and shrink into the ground.

The whole village is quiet again, those who have not long fled stand in stunned silence, staring incomprehensibly at the Dragonlord. Risking a glance to his mother, Merlin sees that she is looking right back at him. Hunith nods minutely.

Turning his attention back to the creatures at his command, the warlock cocks his head, wondering what on earth would a band of wyverns be doing so far away from their habitat, and attacking a poor village at that, with no great number of farm animals for them to feed on.

Concentrating on the faint connecting he can between his magic and the wyverns', Merlin casts his consciousness in direct, probing questions. _What are you doing here? What do you want?_

A few of the wyverns screech, revolted at the contact, and though they do not move from their positions, the villagers around jump back in fright.

The Dragonlord ignores all this, and probes further, changing tactics. _Who sent you here?_

More horrible, deafening screeches, but this time, accompanied by the diffuse image of a large, white, fire breathing creature.

"Aithusa?" Merlin mutters to himself, baffled.

No sooner has he said the name, the white dragon herself roars in the sky, cutting through clouds, flying faster than an arrow. She is bigger than the last time Merlin saw her, still small compared to the Great Dragon, but at least thrice the size of an adult wyvern. Aithusa is different in more ways than just her larger size, the Dragonlord realizes, as he allows his magic connect with hers. She seems healthier, more lucid and less vicious.

Slowly, the white dragon descends from the sky to land among the party of wyverns.

The latter, curiously, seem quite excited at her appearance, and flap their wings enthusiastically, as if welcoming a well-missed older sister home.

"Aithusa," Merlin greets somberly. He has not forgotten their last encounters, and he doubts that she has, either.

 _Emrys_ , she replies in his mind, with a nod of her head.

They stare at each other for a moment, assessingly.

"You've grown," the warlock finally offers – tone polite, if decidedly cool.

To his surprise, the dragon snorts, bemused. _And you have not_ , she replies mockingly.

"...and you've found yourself some new friends," he adds, indicating the wyverns, as if he had not heard her.

With an impatient snap of her tail, Aithusa sends _I'm not here to trade human pleasantries, Emrys. Our time is limited, we must depart at once._

Completely nonplussed, Merlin stares at her incredulously.

"To where, exactly?" He finally sets on asking.

An image of Kilgharrah's frail, decaying form rises in her mind. _He is dying,_ she states unnecessarily.

Grimmly, the Dragonlord nods. With a flash of his eyes, he has all his belongings packed and flying – through the window of his mother's hut towards his outstretched hand. With another, the firebird's cage follows suit.

"Mother," he calls at the same time he turns, looking for her. Their eyes meet over the wings of a wyvern. With a though, Merlin makes the creature step aside to let him pass.

Hunith hugs him fiercely, fingers clutching at his back. He kisses her cheek softly, hands tenderly holding hers.

"I must go," he tells her.

His mother laughs faintly.

"I know." Her blue eyes brim with unshed tears. "That was the exact same thing your father told me before he left, too."

Robbed of words, Merlin simply nods at her, before turning around to climb onto Aithusa's back.

Without waiting to check if he is properly secured, the white dragon leaps into the air. Besides them, the Dragonlord can see the other creatures taking flight too. One of them carries the birdcage in its claws.

With Aithusa leading the group, they head north. Ealdor grows so small so quickly that in a matter of seconds Merlin can no longer distinguish Hunith's graying head among the crowd of cheering, pointing people.

It is with sudden clarity that the warlock realizes he had forgotten to tell his mother how much he loves her. He wants to order Aithusa to turn back, but just as he opens his mouth to speak, the image of Kilgharrah flashes in his mind, and he quietens.

 _She already knows_ , he tries to tell himself.

It is with cold dread in his chest that Merlin remembers Anhora's parting words to him.

Had this been the choice he had to make? Had he chosen right?

* * *

Merlin doesn't know how far they travel, but it is far enough to turn his muscles stiff and his members bitterly cold. The sun is low in the skyline, and the moon can already be glimpsed. The warlock is relieved when it seems they are losing altitude and the mountains are growing larger and larger in the distance.

Before long, he can see the hill-sized shape of Kilgharrah. It rests near the edge of a cliff, facing one of the most breathtaking sights he has even seen. Dark mountains are silhouetted against a starry sky, which hovers in indecision between the warm colors of a sunset and the cold ones of twilight.

When they finally land, Merlin flashes his eyes to ease the worst effects of the journey and slides off Aithusa's back swiftly. Behind them, a wyvern is dropping off the firebird. Afterwards, it takes off once again, disappearing from view along with its companions.

Together, Dragonlord and dragon approach the figure lying asleep before them.

Kilgharrah's breathing is more labored than it had been the last time they'd spoken. More scales are missing – so many that it is hard to find any part of his torso that doesn't have sickly grayish skin exposed. His once glorious wings are battered and tattered, with large chunks falling off. He smells of death.

When he opens his eyes at Aithusa's gentle nudge, though, his pupils are still the endless, powerful gold Merlin has always found both awe-inspiring and intimidating.

"Hatchling," he mumbles, blinking at her. Despite snorting indignantly, the smaller dragon affectionately rubs her snout against his. Then, with no warning, she jumps into the air and flies away, leaving Merlin alone with the Great Dragon – alone except, of course, for the firebird silently watching from where the wyvern had left it.

Kilgharrah, then, barely raising his head, turns his gaze to the Dragonlord.

"Young warlock," he rasps with difficulty. "It is good to see you this one last time."

"My old, dear friend," the Dragonlord returns, words half choked. "Is there anything I can do to help you?"

"Nay," the dragon shakes his enormous head. "It is as I told you, I'm not long for this world. And not even you, with all your power, can conquer the inevitability of death, as you have been taught time and time again."

Merlin lowers his gaze, unable to meet Kilgharrah's. He is ashamed to realize warm tears are running down his cheeks.

"You honor me," he dragon unexpectedly says, making the warlock look up, "with your pain and your grief. Never in all my long years could I have imagined that one day I would be so deeply mourned by the most powerful Dragonlord to ever walk upon this earth." He pauses, and the warlock fights to find his words. "However," Kilgharrah continues as Merlin is about to interrupt, "what truly moves me is the realization of how much I'll be missed as a friend to the kindest, most compassionate soul I have ever had the fortune to cross paths with."

The Dragonlord finds it almost impossible not to break down at that.

Keeping a tight grip on his feelings, Merlin tries to smile. "We did not see eye to eye in the beginning, though," he jokes weakly.

The Great Dragon smirks, his sharp teeth showing. "That we did not," he confirms. "Such an idiotic boy you were back then," he rasps, not unkindly.

Merlin chuckles. "Gaius would argue that I'm still an idiot," he confides. "And you are still the same cryptic old dragon."

Said dragon lets out a rumbling laugh, and the atmosphere is light for a moment.

When Kilgharrah speaks again sobriety is back in his voice. "It was due to your mercy, your unique ability to forgive and your willingness to see the best in others," he reveals, "that I managed to find the same in myself, and let go of my thirst for vengeance and my bitter feelings. For that, I thank you." He bows his head. "And I urge you, Merlin," the old dragon proceeds, "never to allow your heart to change."

The familiar words make Merlin's heart stutter in his chest, and for a second Kilgharrah's golden eyes look as blue as Arthur's had been that fateful day at the margins of Avalon.

"I won't," the warlock repeats his promise in a hoarse voice.

"Good," is the quiet response. "Now," the dragon begins more strongly, slowing getting to his feet, "before what remains of my strength abandons me, I believe you have one last request to make of me."

Merlin is puzzled at that.

"I have nothing to ask of you," he tells his kin emphatically, "you have given me enough throughout the years we've known each other. Your wisdom and knowledge – which I more often than not disregarded unthinkingly –, your patience and support – without which I would have long since given up hope – and your faith and friendship – which shall help me endure the long years to come. I couldn't possibly ask for more, Kilgharrah."

The dragon's lips curve in a smile. "Kind words," he acknowledges. "But still, I'm freely offering one last favour."

Merlin is about to insist that there is nothing he needs, when he hears a low chirp coming from behind him. The warlock turn to see the still unnamed firebird staring expectantly at the pair of them.

"Oh," gasps the Dragonlord.

"Indeed," rumbles the dragon.

With a flick of his hand, Merlin brings the cage closer.

"I had never heard about a bird like this," the warlock comments. "There is no mention of it in Gaius' books about magical creatures."

"There wouldn't be," Kilgharrah lazily replies. "Phoenixes are shy, private creatures. It is almost impossible to find them, if they do not choose to be found. And powerful they are too," he adds haltingly, "their abilities rival a dragon's, though we are quite different in nature."

Merlin frowns. "If they are so powerful," he begins hesitantly, "how come this one was captured?"

The bird bristles indignantly at that.

"You will remember," the dragon replies patiently, "that even the most accomplished of dragons were either killed or imprisoned by Uther during the Purge." The Dragonlord flushes at the reminder. "No creature is without weaknesses, young warlock," he explains.

Catching on quickly, Merlin nods. "The Dragonlords were the dragons' weakness. And the phoenixes'...?" He asks, glancing between the winged creatures.

"Interestingly, a phoenix's greatest weakness, is also its greatest asset," Kilgharrah says mysteriously.

At the unhelpfully cryptic response, the warlock raises his eyebrows expectantly.

"A phoenix can live for centuries, even millennia," the dragon continues, "for when they are deadly hurt, or their bodies frail with old age, they burn away their mortal forms, and are reborn from the very same ashes. However," his tone is forbidding, "at that precise moment, they are as vulnerable as any nestling. This one" he indicates the caged phoenix, "was probably unfortunate enough to be cowardly caught in such moment."

Merlin gawks at the bird.

"So that's why you keep trying to set yourself on fire!" He exclaims, the strange behavior suddenly making much more sense. "Why isn't it working, though?" But even as he asks, the Dragonlord has already found the answer. "There is something dark in the metal of this cage interfering with your magic, isn't there?"

The phoenix nods gravily.

The warlock turns to the dragon. "I have tried all sorts of spells to break the bars and unlock the lock, but nothing works." Merlin eyes him hopefully. "Do you know of a magic strong enough to destroy the cage?"

Kilgharrah shakes his head, somberly. "This metal in impervious to the strongest kinds of magic. I do not know if it is possible to even damage it."

"So there is no hope?" the Dragonlord asks angrily. "The phoenix is to live the rest of its days in captivity?"

"I did not say that," replies the dragon, imperturbable, and says nothing else.

Frustratedly, Merlin runs his fingers through his hair. As much as he will miss Kilgharrah's guidance and advice, he will be hard pressed to truly miss his circular riddles.

At last, the dragon takes pity on him. "The fire of the dragons and the fire of the phoenixes is not dissimilar," he offers.

The warlock wants to smack himself on the forehead. _Of course._

"Are you sure you are strong enough for this?" He asks, cautiously. It has not escaped his notice how the Great Dragon is fighting to simply remain upright.

The dragon nods serenely, and Merlin takes a few steps from the phoenix, who is now intently gazing into Kilgharrah's eyes. Midnight black and pure gold meet, and an understanding passes between them. The warlock's eyes flash gold, and he lifts cage up into the air, until it is at eye-level with the dragon.

"Thank you for everything, my kin," the Dragonlord bows his head deeply, calling the attention back to himself.

"It has been a great honor, Emrys," the dragon repeats, regarding him warmly.

Then, the Great Dragon draws breath and, a second later, hot flames involve the metal cage and the magical bird inside, obscuring them from view.

Merlin doesn't know how long Kilgharrah breathes fire, but it is long enough to make him have to protect his eyes with his forearm, so blindingly bright are the flames. When he is done, and the warlock can look again, he opens his eyes just in time to watch the gold in the dragon's pupils grow fainter and fainter, until all that is left is a dull gray. His body slackens, and he starts to fall, but before he hits the ground, his enormous form dissolves into a thousand of golden dragonflies, that fly away into the night.

The Dragonlord releases the magic holding the cage. On the ground, he sees that it remains intact, but empty. Around it, ashes pile up abundantly. As he approaches the area, Merlin notices something is moving among the embers. Lowering himself, he touches the form carefully, and reveals a tiny, featherless chick blinking up happily at him.

He scoops the phoenix onto his palm and rises slowly, admiring the product of miracle he just witnessed. No, no miracle, just magic and selflessness _,_ he reminds himself.

As Merlin tenderly runs his thumb against the small creature's head and back, he grins at the idea that comes to him.

"I think I just might have found a name worth of you..." he whispers to the bird, tone conspiratorial.

"...Kilgharrah."

* * *

A few minutes after the phoenix is reborn, Aithusa and her wyverns return to the cliff. Merlin senses she is affected by Kilgharrah's death, though she doesn't demonstrate her grief.

Businesslike, the white dragon asks if he would like to be returned south, or if he'd rather freeze to death in the mountains. Quietly, Dragonlord accepts her offer. Grumbling, Aithusa lowers herself so he can mount.

"Wait," Merlin asks suddenly. The dragon stills, but doesn't look back at him. "It is a terrible burden," he murmurs softly, "to be the last of your kind. To be alone in the world, surrounded by others who, try as they might," he lets his gaze wonder to the wyverns screeching behind the clouds above, "will never truly understand you."

 _You would know, wouldn't you?_ She snaps back viciously.

The warlock merely nods. "I would. I do," he says simply. The dragon snorts.

"I was the one who brought you into this convoluted world. But," Merlin continues undeterred, when it seems Aithusa will interrupt him, "I did not care for you, I did not understand you. Not like Morgana did."

At the name, the white dragon becomes completely still.

"I understand why you aided her," the warlock admits, "I understand why you stood by her side. She was lost and afraid. She had no one. It was in your power to help her, so you did." Merlin smiles. "Everyday, I wish I had done the same," he confesses, much to Aithusa's surprise. "But alas, I made my choices and I have to live with them."

Calmly, the last Dragonlord moves to stand before the last dragon.

"I cannot change the past," he declares, "but I would make a different future. And I'd be honored to be able to call you friend in such future," he offers humbly.

Cool, light blue eyes stare back at him, unblinkingly.

 _There may yet be hope for you_ , Aithusa decides after much consideration, _Merlin._ Then she huffes impatiently. _Are you coming, or would you prefer to ride on a wyvern?_

The Dragonlord chuckles. Then, a cheerful chirping sound turns his attention to the phoenix on his shoulder.

"Let us go home, Kilgharrah," he tells the bird. "It is well past the time I pay another newborn a visit."

Merlin holds on to the baby phoenix and mounts the white dragon.

* * *

Next chapter:

Merlin goes back home to meet a very especial person. The kingdom is peaceful, but the warlock knows peace never lasts for long.


	3. Back home at last

**Chapter summary:** Merlin returns to Camelot after months of adventures elsewhere. Joyous news await him.

* * *

 **A/N:** What can you possibly say after an unexplained hiatus of 17 months?

* * *

 **Chapter 3: Back home at last**

* * *

The journey back south is just as harsh as the one to the north. Merlin does spend most of it in a restless slumber, so at least it seems to pass quicker. It is mid-morning when they cross the borders of Camelot's Kingdom, and the warlock decides he cannot stand a minute longer in this uncomfortable, cramped position. So, after a thought to thank Aithusa, the Dragonlord wills himself and his still quite featherless charge back home.

Never having traveled such a great distance by this unusual mode of transportation, the warlock spares half a second to worry about all the horrible things that can go wrong before dismissing his fears. He is Emrys, and his companion an immortal magical bird, they will be fine.

Merlin aims at his cramped room in Gaius' chambers. He – ahem – misses slightly.

In the warlock's defense, he has spent half the day on the back of a dragon and hasn't eaten anything since breakfast the day before. So he doesn't feel too guilty about appearing out of nowhere right on top of the desk in the small council chambers, where currently Sir Leon, Sir Percival, Gaius and Queen Guinevere were finishing up a meeting. That chamber is, in fact, exactly two stores down from Merlin's room.

At the surprised gasps and pointed swords, the warlock raises his hands placantinly. Small Kilgharrah on his shoulder peeps reprovingly at them.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Merlin says embarrassed. "I didn't mean–"

But he doesn't get a chance to finish, for Gaius is pulling him to the ground and hugging him tightly.

"You have no idea of how much good you've done, my boy," the old physician murmurs in his ear. "I couldn't be prouder."

Merlin tries to ask what he means by that, but Gwen is right behind Gaius, and envelops him is another hug before he has the chance.

"It worked brilliantly, Merlin," the queen tells him, a satisfied grin on her face.

Then, Percival silently but warmly pats him on the back, murmuring 'congratulations'.

Leon is next, and stoically pulls Merlin into a handshake. "I admit I had my doubts," the knight says, "but you were proven right, my friend."

Having no idea what is happening, the warlock gapes confusedly at the group. "What on earth are you talking about?"

Gwen chuckles, and the knights outright snicker, though playfully. It is Gaius who takes pity on him.

"As of today," he says smiling, "the practice of sorcery and other benign magical arts is no longer considered a crime by the courts of Camelot. Moreover," the physician continues, and Merlin wonders how his wide grin manages to become even wider, "all those caught shunning sorcerers and sorceresses simply for possessing magic are subject to punishment."

Merlin stares uncomprehendingly at his mentor. Then, his gaze travels to the queen.

"You did it, Merlin," confirms Gwen.

Tears choking him, the warlock shakes his head. "We did it, Gwen."

Apparently tired of being ignored, Kilgharrah tweets impatiently, making four pair of eyes fly towards him.

"...why do you have a bird on your shoulder?" Asks a bewildered Leon – much to the phoenix exasperation, if his huffing is any indication.

Merlin laughs. "He is the reason I did not come as soon as I heard about Ygraine," the warlock shoots Gwen an apologetic look, which she waves away.

"What matters is that you are here now," the queen says decisively. "I'll take you down to the nursery later, to meet her."

"I would love that," agrees Merlin fervently. Finally, he would hold the sweet girl he's been so often dreaming about.

"But first," Gwen continues, "you have much to tell us."

The others nod.

"Such as," says Percival, "why do so many people seem to be under the impression that Emrys is an old barmy woman?"

"Or," intervenes Gaius, "why did you think it was a good idea to jump on the back of a dragon and fly off into the horizon before the eyes of dozens of witnesses? Yes, news do travel that fast, Merlin."

"And let us not forget," adds Leon before the warlock has any chance to defend himself, "how in the five kingdoms did you come to befriend a chicken?" The knight's joking manner and easy posture take Merlin completely off guard. Last time they had spoken, Leon had been cool and distant. Now, he is warm and relaxed, and the warlock wonders what had happened to mellow the other man. Gwen's influence, most likely.

As the 'chicken' lets out an angry burst of smoke through the end of his tail, making the still snigering Leon jump back in fright, and the others laugh merrily, Merlin realizes how much he had missed home the past half a year.

* * *

"She is so perfect, Gwen," Merlin is saying for what feels like the thousandth time – though he doubts he will ever tire of repeating the words – as he holds baby Ygraine in his arms.

"She is," the queen agrees, a soft smile playing on her lips.

The three of them are in the nursery, with Gwen sitting on an armchair by the windows, and the warlock walking in circles around the room, cradling the small sleeping child against his chest.

It has been a few weeks since Merlin returned, and he is finding it challenging to adjust to living in Camelot again. It is disconcerting how some things seem to always remain unchanged – the mess in the physician's chambers, the knights patrolling the streets, the queen holding council meetings and hearings. While others are completely alien, as if coming from another reality – merchants selling magical herbs and poultices in the market, Druids wandering around the citadel, the occasional pair of eyes flashing gold among the crowd with no demand for an arrest following.

"Though she is only this well-behaved when with you, Merlin," Gwen continues, interrupting his train of thought. "I've never seen her cry in your arms," she comments wonderingly. "You have a way with small children. Ever thought of fathering them yourself?" The queen asks, her tone only half joking.

The warlock sputters nonsensically before pulling himself together enough to glare at his smirking friend.

"You know what," he tells Ygraine, turning his back on the queen, "I'm going to ignore your mother. It's clear all those boring meetings robbed her of her wits." This makes Gwen laugh openly, and Merlin grins at the sound.

Ever since his return, the warlock can see noticeable changes in the queen demeanor and mood. If before she had to force herself through the routine, now she really seems to enjoy the small pleasures from day-to-day. He has no doubt the birth of her daughter had a lot to do with these changes.

As he completes another round, Ygraine awakens and blinks sleepily up at Merlin's face. Her eyes are as blue as Arthur's, and the warlock allows himself a moment to get lost inside them.

"Yes, yes, I couldn't agree more, princess," he stage-whispers, tone conspiratorial. "Ruling is boring, we should flee Camelot and go live wild adventures together!"

The baby moves in his arms, and the warlock nods sagely, much to the queen's amusement.

"Your wisdom can only be compared to your kindness, Your Highness," he mumbles humbly to the child, who is now fascinated by his handkerchief. "We shall stay and keep your lady mother company, as well as advise her in important matters of the kingdom."

Ygraine loses interest in the piece of cloth and seems to look around. Merlin caresses her soft chestnut curls, almost the same shade as her mother's.

"Ah yes, you are indeed your father's daughter," he says, tone mock regretful. "He too, could not pass a few hours without a hearty meal. Feast then, my princess!" And with a low bow, he delivers the child into her mother's waiting arms to be breastfed.

"It is truly amazing how you always seem to know what she needs," Gwen muses in between giggles, arranging the baby comfortably against her, and easing back on the armchair.

Merlin shrugs, smiling from ear to ear. "Ygraine is simply a very eloquent girl, that is all," he compliments, letting his finger be grabbed into the tight grip of a caramel little fist.

The queen chuckles, but is too busy gazing lovingly into her daughter's peaceful face to reply.

The warlock takes a moment to marvel at them both. At this strong, resilient woman, who overcame great difficulties, faced much heartache and still never gave up hope, never gave up her ideals or her kind nature. At this miracle of a child, born of the ashes of so much grief and pain, only to bring hope and happiness to all around her.

I wish you were here to see them, Arthur, Merlin thinks, smile fading a little. I wish you could see this marvelous being you helped put into the world. I wish you could see what an amazing queen your wife has become.

"What is wrong, Merlin?" Gwen suddenly asks, looking at his face, voice concerned.

The warlock belatedly realizes his cheeks are wet with warm tears. He brushes them off distractedly.

"I'm just–," he cuts himself off and shakes his head, a smile rising again in his expression. No more sad thoughts today. "I just can't wait till she's old enough so I can tell her about all the times the underappreciated manservant had to save her father, the royal prat."

The queen laughs, though she eyes him knowingly.

"I miss him too," she says quietly a moment later, after their laughter died down. "Everyday."

The warlock feels his throat close up, and only manages to nod curtly.

"You were Arthur's closest friend, and mine as well," continues Gwen candidly. "We would have been dead a thousand times over if it weren't for your help, and I'll never be able to thank you enough for that."

Guiltily, Merlin opens his mouth to say something, but the queen raises the hand not holding on to the baby to silence him.

"I know you will protect this child with your life," she states unwaveringly, "just as you protected her father. And that is why I would like to ask you, Merlin, my dearest friend." She pauses, glancing down at tiny being on her lap, before looking up again. "Will you be Ygraine's godfather?"

Wordlessly, Merlin falls to his knees and, holding both their hands, places a reverent kiss on each.

Gwen smiles and Ygraine yaws, sleepy again.

* * *

"Very good!" Leon shouts to the sweating knights. "But this was merely the warm up." A couple of pained groans can be heard among the younger ones. "You are now to pair off and show me what you got!" The first knight orders, not leaving room for arguments.

Merlin watches from the sidelines of the training grounds as the men pick up their swords and begin sparring with each other. The sky is pale blue and the temperature is mild. A perfect day to spend outside, strolling leisurely through the woods or having a picnic by a stream.

Or – the warlock thinks to himself, as Percival lands a particularly staggering blow against his opponent, causing him to fall flat on his back – to get yourself beaten senseless by overly muscled giants.

"What do you think?" Leon suddenly asks, appearing out of nowhere at Merlin's side.

"What do I think about what?" The warlock returns, a little too quickly, trying to hide how badly he startled.

The knight smirks.

"About our new recruits," he elaborates, watching as Percival helps the man against whom he had been fighting back to his feet, giving him pointers on how to best grasp at his weapon. "Camlann took its toll," the knight continues, all amusement vanishing from his face. "We are only now recovering."

Somber, Merlin nods, though privately he thinks Camelot will never truly recover, not without Arthur.

Taking a moment to consider the original question carefully, the warlock turns his gaze to the sparring knights. The sight is familiar. How often hadn't Arthur made him his personal punching bag in these very same grounds? How often hadn't Merlin brought water to dehydrated, exhausted men? He might never be an expert swordsman, but it is impossible not to pick up on one thing or two after so many years spent in close contact with sword fighting.

"They are good," the warlock decides at last. He can see that his response surprises Leon, who hadn't really expected him to have an opinion. "But they must be better if they are to face foes as dangerous as the Saxons. For now, they could take odds of two – maybe three – against one, if they are well-rested and well-fed, but no more. When Arthur–" Merlin breaks off, trying to swallow a lump in his throat. "Before Camlann," he amends, "the greatest strength of our force was that all worked together seamlessly. The king trained them well, not only in matters of individual combat, but also regarding synchrony and teamwork. With so many losses, such cohesiveness has to build up again, and that takes time."

For a long time, Leon doesn't say anything. Worried that he might have overstepped, the warlock glances back at the knight. He is met with an incredulous open mouth and a pair of wide, disbelieving eyes.

"What?" Merlin inquires, a cheeky smile building its way to his lips. "I do pay attention, you know," he explains nonchalantly.

"I–," Leon splutters, caught off guard. "Yes. Of course," he hastens to say. "Forgive me."

The warlock waves the apology away. "I'm still helpless with a sword, if it's any consolation," he offers with a grin, not in the least bothered by the admission.

Seemingly glad that he hasn't caused offense, the knight chuckles heartily.

"What are you two gossiping about?" Percival asks, stepping up to them. Looking over his shoulder, Merlin sees that his sparring partner is regaining his breath in a nearby bench. The experienced knight clearly defeated him soundly once again.

"Just discussing the new recruits," Leon replies easily, passing a water skin to his sweating friend.

With a quiet thanks, Percival takes large gulpfuls of the blessedly cold liquid.

"Ah, yes? And what is the sorcerer's verdict?" The tall knight demands with joking graveness.

"It seems that the troops are not up to his magical standards yet," the first knight says, winking at the warlock.

Merlin snickers. "The army in its prime couldn't help to fight against magic and win," he says. "Now, with so many untested warriors?" He indicates the exhausted young men, already faltering in their movements. "You wouldn't stand a chance," he declares, words suddenly sharper than he intended.

Leon raises his eyebrows. "We managed to stand our ground the last times we faced magical foes," he points out, more serious now.

"Please," the warlock scoffs. "A sword and a shield can only get you so far in combat against sorcerers or magical creatures. If it hadn't been for me–" Merlin cuts himself mid sentence, realizing he is about to sound like a conceited git. "Well," he amends, "I'm just saying that you had help, that is all."

Percival and Leon share a glance, before the muscled knight turns to grin in the warlock's direction.

"I guess there is only one way to settle the matter," he says, matter-of-factly, putting aside the now empty waterskin.

Together, the two knights unsheathe their swords and step towards the training grounds. "Are you coming or not?" Leon shoots over his shoulder.

Merlin gapes at them, flailing his arms uselessly by his sides, trying to find words. "I-I don't think this is a good idea," he manages at last, eyeing the dozens of sparring men around them. People may be becoming more accustomed to magic in daily contexts, but the warlock doubts they are ready to witness it in combat settings.

"We trust you, Merlin," Percival suddenly tells him, something solemn dancing behind his eyes. The honest words make the warlock's heart constrict with some unnameable feeling. "And the recruits need to trust you too. Besides," he smiles, readying his stance with ease, as if he hadn't been exchanging blows mere minutes before, "we promise to take easy on you."

That surprises a laugh out of Merlin and he lets go of his misgivings. Hadn't he spent years waiting for the day he would be able to be himself and reveal his abilities to his friends? Hadn't he dreamed of being accepted for who he is? Well, that is his chance.

"Alright, alright" he concedes, positioning himself before the two men. "Bring it on."

At first, the knights are careful. They move slowly and don't put much strength in their blows. The warlock huffs. With a flash of his eyes he has both of them unarmed, the swords falling to the ground with satisfying thuds.

"Honestly, guys," Merlin smirks. He can't help but enjoy the looks of poorly concealed bewilderment in his friends' expressions. "You have to try harder than this."

Leon narrows his eyes. Percival's smile is sharp and dangerous as he picks the weapons up, throwing one towards the other man. "Oh, this is going to be fun," he remarks, cracking his neck.

"I missed having a real challenge," the first knight adds, swinging his sword skillfully.

Around them, the recruits have ceased their sparring, and are now observing with much interest the trio about to fight. The warlock ignores the suspicious looks and whispered comments. Instead, he focuses on the brimming energy inside him, eager to burst out and show what it can do.

As one, the knights rush forwards, slashing the metal in the air with unpared speed.

"Forþecce!" Merlin orders, causing the swords to hit an invisible barrier. The men try to push their weapons in, but it is to no avail. The magical shield holds fast. When they try to pull them out, they discover that the metal has become stuck.

Leon curses, but is quick to change tactics. Giving up on the sword, he reaches for something hidden inside his armor. The warlock barely catches a glimpse of silver before a knife is flying right to his face.

His instincts take over, and with a wordless flash he diverts the weapon, which falls harmlessly to his feet. His split second of disattention, however, is enough to allow his barrier to crumble.

Merlin gracelessly ducks, as Percival charges with his freed sword. It misses his head by an inch.

Their audience cheers and claps, and the warlock has to admit that maybe the knights weren't the only ones who had underestimated an opponent.

He doesn't have time to dwell on it, because Leon is right behind Percival, bringing his newly retrieved weapon down upon Merlin.

With a wild gesture of his arm, the warlock halts the knight mid-movement, before throwing him back several steps. He could have pushed him to the ground, but this is merely practice, and Merlin doesn't want to seriously hurt his friends.

The warlock doesn't expect the recruits to cheer for him, so he is surprised when he hears someone applauding. Turning around, Merlin is met with the sight of none other than the queen, standing confidently on the outskirts of the training grounds. On her arms, a babbling child claps her small, caramel hands excitedly.

Realizing the royals' presence, the knights and recruits respectfully bow to Gwen, who graciously waves them away.

Exchanging silent looks, Percival, Leon and Merlin agree to take a break from their sparring to approach the queen.

"Your Majesty," the first knight inclines his head. "Is there anything we can help you with?"

Gwen smiles, while changing her hold on Ygraine. The baby is twisting relentlessly, trying to reach Merlin.

"I have come to see how the training is proceeding," she replies easily. "I must say I was quite surprised to find Merlin taking part too."

Embarrassed, the warlock feels his face flush. "It was their idea, honestly," he mumbles, distracting himself by allowing the princess to grab his finger.

"Don't misunderstand me, I do not disapprove," Gwen clarifies. She is smiling, and there is something almost coy about it. "In fact," she continues, "seeing you three just now gave me an excellent idea."

The three men are similarly confused by that. "What do you mean, my lady?" Percival inquires.

Gwen's grin broadens. "As I am sure you remember, next summer we shall host the traditional Decennial Tournament."

"Ah, yes," Merlin sighs, already feeling the beginnings of a headache. "The tournament without rules, the one that more often than not ends with blood and death. Can't wait for it," he adds sarcastically.

Playfully, Percival smacks him on the shoulder. "Don't be a spoilsport!"

"He is only like that because he is always on the sidelines, and never gets in on the action," Leon says between chuckles.

"Now, wait a minute–"

"Actually," Gwen interrupts, silencing the squabbling men with a gesture. "That is exactly what I mean." Pausing, she looks each one camly in the eye. "I think we should allow magic users to take part in the tournament."

He takes a moment to stare open mouthed at the queen. Of all the things the warlock had expected her to say… "You can't be serious."

"Deadly so."

Flailing, Merlin glances towards the knights for help, but the pair appears thoughtful rather than scandalized.

Pressing on her advantage, Gwen elaborates. "It would be a definite sign for the people of Camelot that magic is accepted and welcomed in the kingdom." The warlock opens his mouth to protest, but the queen doesn't give him a chance. "And I'm certain that if any conflict arises you will be able to help us settle the matter peacefully, Merlin."

"Agreed, Your Majesty," Leon interjects, before the warlock can say anything.

"And maybe we can even get Merlin to compete," Percival adds, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Indeed," the other knight agrees, "I was thinking something along the same lines."

"Excellent," the queen decides. "It's settled then."

"I still think–" The warlock begins pleading.

"Magic!" A child's voice interrupts. The pronunciation isn't perfect, with the 'c' getting all but lost, the meaning, however, cannot be mistaken.

Ygraine has just spoken her first word.

They are all stunned for a moment.

Gwen is the first to recuperate. "Well, Merlin," she manages to say almost normally, though a proud, happy laugh threatens to escape her. "Ygraine has decided it for you. Now you have no choice but to participate."

* * *

After that day, Merlin takes to joining the knights in training more often – mostly for the fun of hanging out with Leon and Percival. In truth, there isn't much he can offer in regards to actual fighting techniques beyond the occasional pointer on how to deal with certain specific magical elements and creatures.

He decides to make himself useful and dedicates all of his energy to helping Gaius with his physician obligations.

"I kind of missed this, you know?" Merlin tells his mentor distractedly as he uncorks a flask.

They are side by side at the work table in the physician's chambers, preparing poultices and remedies for the sweating sickness that is common that time of the year.

"Getting yourself elbows-deep in foul smelling concoctions?" Gaius asks, raising a disbelieving eyebrow.

Merlin chuckles, flashing his eyes to speed up the process of grinding some fibrous herb. "I mean being back home, working with you," he corrects, bumping his shoulder lightly with Gaius'.

The physician's face smooths into a comprehending smile. "I thought you'd actually miss traveling and overindulging in risky, unnecessary displays of magic," Gaius teases with no malice behind it.

The warlock grins, somewhat bashfully. "I just like feeling useful," he confides. "Like I still have a–"

"–purpose?" His mentor completes easily, as if reading his mind.

Merlin nods, but doesn't reply verbally, suddenly reminded of another exchange about the purpose for his magic.

Your gift, Merlin, was given to you for a reason, Kilgharrah had told him, so many years ago, before he even knew the dragon had a name.

"Kilgharrah is gone."

The words startle Merlin just as much as Gaius.

"What?" The physician demands, putting his instruments away and turning to face his old apprentice. "What happened to the phoenix?"

"Not–not the bird. The Great Dragon," the warlock unwillingly corrects.

Understanding blossoms in Gaius' eyes, the reason for the phoenix's name finally making sense to him.

Merlin looks away, unable to meet his mentor's gaze. When sharing tales of his adventures away from Camelot, he had carefully avoided mentioning the Great Dragon's fate. He tried to avoid even thinking about it. However, it was only a matter of time before Gaius realized there was something he wasn't telling them.

Just like the whole immortality issue or Anhora's warning. The warlock knows it is wishful thinking on his part, but maybe – just maybe – if he doesn't think about it, it will be less real.

"I am sorry, Merlin," Gaius offers quietly, placing a comforting hand on the young man's arm. "I know that – despite your disagreements – you and the dragon had developed a bond."

The warlock is horrified to feel tears prickling the back of his eyes. Hasn't he had enough of crying this past year? This past decade? Still, he can't help the words that stumble out of his mouth.

"Even him, Gaius," Merlin snarls in a mixture of frustration and fear. "If there was one friend I thought I wouldn't be able to outlive it was Kilgharrah. After everyone is gone and I'm the only one left, I thought at least we could–"

The warlock cuts himself off, biting his lower lip anxiously.

"Merlin," the royal physician begins, bewilderment giving way to shocked realization. "Merlin, what do you mean–?"

He is interrupted by someone barging into the physician's chambers. "Help! Please, you have to help me," a teenage boy begs them. "My brother's hurt!"

Merlin meets Gaius' eyes. For a second neither of them moves. Then, the physician nods once and the warlock grins determinedly back.

Shouldering his medicine bag, Merlin turns to the heaving boy at the door. "Show me the way."

Merlin is trekking back to the citadel when Kilgharrah appears in a burst of flames.

The roads are empty. The sun has long since set. The night is cloudy and the only source of light in the darkness are the torches burning along the buildings of the lower city. The sudden appearance of blinding light, thus, surprises the warlock greatly.

"Kilgharrah!" Merlin exclaims, stumbling backwards. "You have to stop scaring me like that."

The phoenix finds a perch on a nearby mast. His bright, crimson feathers make the Pendragon flag dangling under him seem washed-out and pale, while his gleaming golden beak and claws outshine the torch across the street.

Kilgharrah no longer resembles the featherless, teeny, newborn chick he was their first days back in Camelot. He'd matured quickly, and in a fortnight he had grown into the majestic creature Merlin had first encountered.

Ever since then, the phoenix has taken to disappearing at sporadic times – presumably to explore and hunt – and reappear at unexpected moments, more often than not startling Merlin badly in the process.

Kilgharrah's favorite time to surprise the warlock is during his visits to Ygraine. Merlin will be playing with her in the nursery when sudden burning flames will make him squeal inelegantly, causing the princess to giggle and the bird to croon, amused.

Apart from that, however, the phoenix isn't overly keen on showing himself to others, prefering to approach when the warlock is alone. Merlin wonders if his distrust of other humans is due to his time encaged, or if it is an ingrained characteristic of the species.

A soft chirping sound breaks Merlin out of his reverie. He cocks his head at Kilgharrah.

"Do you need something?" The warlock asks, rolling his shoulders with a grimace. He's spent the afternoon and most of the evening treating that teenage boy's brother – who had fallen off a ladder and broken his legs rather gruesomely – and he is simply exhausted. "It's getting late and I really need to get back home." To my bed, he adds silently, stifling a yawn.

Kilgharrah tweets again, staring at him intently. Strangely, he sounds almost apologetic. After a minute or two of restless silence, he takes flight and Merlin follows him with his eyes, before the phoenix burns away once again.

Frowning, the warlock continues his journey to the castle, pondering the bird's strange behavior. It almost seemed like he wanted to warn Merlin of something.

When Merlin finally reaches the physician's chambers, it all makes sense.

Stepping inside, the warlock is met with a sight he never expected to witness again.

Gaius sits on the table across from an elderly lady. They are in deep discussion, completely absorbed in one another. Their hands are joined, and Merlin has never seen his mentor so happy in his life.

The warlock chances a look towards his room. The door is ajar, and it is just possible to identify a collection of bags and objects – not of his own – lying inside.

Merlin sighs.

He should be happy for Gaius. And he is, truly. But he can't help the bittersweet thought that her return means he hasn't found his new purpose yet.

"Merlin!" Gaius greats, finally realizing his old apprentice is in the room. The physician is grinning widely, and for all the lines in his forehead and around his eyes, he looks as young as a man who has found love for the first time. "Do you remember Alice?"

* * *

Merlin requests modest quarters near the nursery wing, as to be closer to the princess.

Somehow, he ends up with the whole west tower as his private chambers, library and laboratory.

"It's not necessary, really," he tries to argue with Gwen over supper one night, after he's shared his desire to give some privacy to Gaius and Alice. "I'd be happy with a room in the servants' quarters. I don't need fancy chambers – much less a whole tower!"

"Nonsense," the queen flickers a hand dismissively at him. "You'll soon be appointed Court Sorcerer. You must have chambers concordant to your position."

Merlin splutters, stunned. "Court Sorcerer?" He asks, disbelieving.

Gwen eyes him strangely. "Of course," she confirms softly. "The magic representative and specialist in the council. You are the best suited for the position, Merlin."

The warlock fights to find the appropriate words. "I didn't even know you were planning on appointing a court sorcerer," he manages at last, coughing around a mouthful of wine. "Much less that you wanted me for the job."

The queen raises an amused eyebrow. "You are my best friend, one of my most trusted advisors and possibly the strongest sorcerer to ever walk on the Earth. There is literally no one as qualified as you," she points out. Gwen looks away for a moment, her eyes losing their teasing glint and becoming serious, pleading. "Camelot needs you, Merlin," she tells him, voice small. "I need you."

The warlock feels heat creeping up his neck, causing his face to flush.

"Still," he says, breaking the momentary silence. Merlin tries to keep a straight face, but he can feel a playful grin rising on his lips. If Gwen's returning smile is anything to go by, she knows she has him. "The whole tower?"

The queen huffs, but Merlin can tell she's actually pleased. "Naturally," she replies nonchalantly. "After all, we need a place to safely store all the magical artefacts and books we are bringing out of the vaults. It's time someone put them to good use."

Merlin's fork clatters on his plate when he drops it in favor of walking up to his friend to hug her.

"I will not let you down, Gwen" he vows quietly, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair.

"I know, Merlin."

* * *

As Merlin knew they would, Alice and Gaius soon rediscover the harmonious synergy between themselves in their work. The sorceress' magical knowledge in regards to herbs and treatments is almost as extensive as Gaius', and her experience actually performing such treatments is unparalleled. They complement one another seamlessly.

When Merlin is not busy helping to sort decades worth of confiscated magical artefacts and documents, he often finds himself watching Alice work. She's more instinctual in her approach to the healing arts, and the warlock learns a lot from her.

Still, with Alice back, Gaius doesn't need Merlin's assistance as often. So the warlock decides to become more involved in matters of State. Although the queen has expressed her wishes for him to become Court Sorcerer, Merlin is reticent in regards to formally accepting the position, at least for the moment. He takes to attending council meetings – as a proper advisor, as opposed to an eavesdropping servant – to get a feel of what would be expected of him as a member of the court.

"And now on the matter of new taxes," Geoffrey of Monmouth is saying, as the chosen mediator for the present council meeting. "If you read the report composed by Lady Laudine..."

Merlin allows his attention as well as his eyes to wander. About thirty people sit on the round table, men and women, nobleborn and common folk alike. Gwen always tries to make sure everyone is represented. At the moment, Merlin is the only one with magic in the room, but as more sorcerers return to Camelot it is likely that that will change.

Most people have grown accustomed to all the changes the queen has made to the laws. A few noblemen found it harder to accept the lower classes in the council than the magical folk in the city, but Gwen's unwavering resolution on both matters soon stifled all prejudiced complaints.

"From where I'm standing," the resounding voice of Lunete, an elderly weaver who holds the respect of all the category, takes Merlin's thoughts back to the present discussion, "it is unnecessary to create a new tax for merchants who trade in magical objects. They already pay standard trading fees, just like any other tradesperson."

"I respectfully disagree," Lord Ywain speaks up, pompously drawing the attention to him. "The work and time invested by farmers to grow food cannot be compared to the hasty tricks employed by sorcerers. It is simply unfair."

Merlin frowns. He opens his mouth to argue, but someone beats him to it.

"I think you're wrong, Sir," a young man in simple garbs says, surprising the others. He's flushed with embarrassment, but his tone is certain. "My sister uses magic to enchant healing potions and trinkets, and she works just as hard on them as I do on the farming fields."

Percival nods. "I agree with Olwen. If a new tax is to be created, it should target luxury items, independent of their origin – be it magical or otherwise."

Merlin catches Gwen smiling approvingly at that, though she quickly masks her grin with a neutral expression.

The warlock sits back on his chair, content with just watching the heated debate brought forth.

* * *

The kingdom is quiet. There are no threats of war or conflict and Camelot prospers. Gwen handles the court masterfully, and Leon has more than enough experience with preparing the knights and the army. Even Gaius, who Merlin thought would finally consider retiring and passing the mantle of Court Physician to a younger healer, has seemingly found renewed strength after Alice's return and together the two of them continue to perform the physician's duties untiringly.

Merlin tells himself that he should enjoy the peace and tranquility. For years he lived in a constant state of watchfulness. If he wasn't defending Arthur against some menacing magical force, he was busy narrowly avoiding being executed for having magic. For years he yearned to be able to fall asleep and not fear what the next day would bring.

Now, magic is permitted once again. His friends know and accept him. Camelot is at peace. It's all how it's supposed to be.

And yet Merlin is restless.

During the days, he's able to occupy his hands with menial tasks and his mind with idle chatter and courtly business. But during the night there is nothing distracting him from the emptiness inside his heart.

The truth is, everything he did, Merlin didn't do it only for himself. He did it for Arthur too. He did it so that one day they could live in a world free of prejudice and ignorance and mindless death. So that one day there wouldn't have to be lies and secrets between them.

The world he's created is everything he could have dreamed of. Except... Arthur is not there to enjoy it with him.

And Merlin hates himself a bit, because countless others do not have a chance to live in this new era. Will, Freya, his father, Alator, Finna, Lancelot, Elyan, Gwaine, Kilgharrah. All their deaths paved the way to the world Merlin wanted to build. But it is Arthur's absence that makes moving forwards unbearable.

The warlock feels stuck. Days turn into weeks that turn into months. They all blur together and Merlin is left wondering how he's supposed to survive an eternity of that.

* * *

A sharp tug on his neckerchief brings Merlin out of his reverie. Gently, he pries Ygraine's chubby, caramel fingers away from the blue cloth wrapped around his neck.

"I deeply apologize, Princess," the warlock says, trying for playful but not quite managing. He turns his attention back to the girl on his lap. "What were you saying?"

Ygraine babbles nonsensically, pointing with her hands and squirming where she sits.

"Your wish is my command," Merlin replies, helping her stand up on wobbly legs. The warlock watches his goddaughter stumble her way toward a bush, behind which a squirrel has just hidden.

"When did she get this big?" Gwen asks distractedly, following the girl's progress with her eyes from where she sits next to Merlin under an ancient oak tree.

It's mid-afternoon and the three of them are enjoying a break on the forest grounds just behind the castle.

Leon had been hesitant to let the queen and her heir out of the citadel without any guards, but Merlin assured him of his ability to protect them.

"Shoot! I hoped you wouldn't realize the growth spell I placed on her," Merlin replies, grinning widely at his friend.

Gwen laughs and playfully shoves at him. "I'm trying to be serious here," she admonishes without heat.

The warlock opens his mouth to answer, but sudden movement on the corner of his eyes makes him turn abruptly. Several feet away, Ygraine has finally reached her target. From between the foliage, the hidden squirrel springs forth, startling the girl. She cries out in surprise, stumbling backwards and losing her precarious balance. Before she hits the ground, Merlin reaches out with his magic, stopping her mid-fall.

Ygraine giggles happily, effectively distracted. "Magic!" She says, clapping her hands and craning her neck to look at Merlin, a smile on her lips.

The girl looks at him with such trust and affection that the warlock's heart melts a little in his chest. With a twist of his finger, he has the princess rising and floating back in their direction, laughing and enjoying herself all the way.

Gwen tsks with a small smile, shaking her head at the scene. "You know, Merlin. You won't be able to catch her everytime she falls," she comments. "It's part of growing up. You can't protect her from life."

The warlock half-shrugs, allowing the magic to fade away and catching a giggling Ygraine in his arms when she drops. "Doesn't mean I can't try," he retorts quietly, only half-joking.

They are silent for a while after that.

The princess plays a few more minutes on Merlin's lap, before finally succumbing to exhaustion. Blinking her eyes sleepily, Ygraine curls between Merlin and Gwen, resting her head against her mother's tigh, but keeping a hand clutched to her godfather's sleeve.

"She's so perfect, Gwen," the warlock murmurs once again, combing his fingers through the girl's soft curling locks.

"She is," the queen repeats quietly, as she always does. "Merlin…"

"Hm?" He asks distractedly, not looking at his friend. The warlock waits a few moments, but Gwen remains silent. Finally, he glances up to her. He finds the queen staring intently at him, worry creasing her brow. Gwen's warm chocolate eyes are brimming with unshed tears. Concerned now, Merlin reaches out to hold his friend's hand. "What's wrong, Gwen?"

Chuckling humorlessly, the young widow turns her head away. "That's what I wish you'd tell me, Merlin," she admits, something bitter tinting her words.

The warlock bites his lip and takes his hand away. A minute passes and still he doesn't say a word, Gwen sighs, sounding disappointed.

"I can see you retreating into yourself," she says. "You are quiet in meetings, and you barely accept to dine in my company anymore. I've spoken to Gaius and Alice, they say it's been a week since you last came to the physician's chambers."

Has it really been so long? Merlin wonders, honestly surprised. He hadn't realized—

"Leon and Percival told me you never show up in the training fields, not even when they ask you to," the queen presses on, relentless. "We are all concerned for you, Merlin."

The warlock feels himself flush with irritation. "And this is what? Some sort of intervention?" He snaps. "The others were too cowardly to approach me themselves so they sent you and Ygraine to do the unsavory task of confronting the sorcerer?"

Gwen purses her lips, but doesn't give in to his biting words.

"I know you are used to keeping everything close to your chest," she says calmly, ignoring his heated accusations. "I know there are things you find difficult to share with us." Merlin opens his mouth to interrupt, though he isn't even sure what's he about to argue, but the queen holds up a hand to silence him. "Nevertheless, I can see that you are hurting," Gwen continues. "And I'd like to help, if you would permit me."

"There's nothing to be done," the warlock replies shortly.

"I refuse to accept it," the queen argues resolutely, as if they were in a State meeting and one of the conservative council members had just proposed an outrageous decree. "There is always another way, Merlin. Whatever you are going through, you don't have to bear it alone anymore."

Gwen says it with such conviction that Merlin is almost persuaded she must be right. That perhaps — whatever it is — it's not hopeless.

"I don't know, Gwen," he confesses, and now that he's said it, the warlock can't keep other words from following. His friend has that effect on him. "I don't understand why I'm feeling this way. I thought I had gotten over it. I thought I was healing."

The queen understands immediately. "I miss him too, Merlin. Everyday," she tells him, meaning to sound comforting.

And he knows that. He does. But it doesn't help.

"I thought I could find another purpose," Merlin tries to make her understand, "I thought I could use my magic to do good. I hoped it would be enough."

"But?" Gwen prompts kindly.

"But I was born to serve Arthur. That's the reason for my magic. For my very existence. Without him everything I did — everything I do — feels meaningless."

"It's not meaningless to us," his friend contradicts, voice breaking on the words.

Looking into her eyes, Merlin realizes how his words might sound to Gwen, who has lost just as much as he has. Again, the warlock berates himself, he's being selfish. He's hurting Gwen without meaning to.

"I'm sorry," the warlock quietly begs. "I didn't mean it like that."

Except he did, a little.

"Mama?" A soft voice interrupts.

Swiftly, Gwen brushes tears from her eyes, plastering a reassuring expression on her face. Merlin wonders if anyone else would be able to see through its cracks, as he does.

"Did we wake you, sweetie?" The queen asks, turning to look at her daughter.

Ygraine blinks up at the both of them. More alert than any child who has just woken up from an impromptu nap has any right to be. The girl frowns at Merlin.

"Don't worry, we are not fighting," he replies without losing a beat. Playfully, the warlock ruffles her hair. "I wouldn't dare cross your mother, believe me."

The princess giggles approvingly. "Magic!" She calls.

Merlin springs to his feet, bowing low before the royal women. He offers his hand Ygraine, as if they were in a ball and this was their first dance.

"Your wish is my command," he tells her with a smile — but the words lack the lightheartedness they had before.

The girl grabs his fingers. Blue eyes turn golden for a second.

Around them, birds began to sing and even cicadas join the symphony. Music is carried into the clearing by the wind and the rustling tree leaves. In the center, Merlin spins Ygraine in endless circles, her unabashed laugher mixing with the other sounds and creating a beautiful, quaint harmony.

Then, the world seems to quieten down. The birds are only humming and even the blowing wind has softened. The warlock and the princess slow their clumsy steps, listening to the silence. Still on the ground, Gwen has stopped breathing. They wait.

Pure, clear notes descend upon them. Like the first drops of rain after a long drought. Sweet and refreshing, they breathe life into the clearing, making everything seem more colorful, more vibrant.

A melody with the likes of which Merlin has never heard before fills his chest with warmth and love. But there is something melancholic about it too. It twists his heart painfully.

Merlin's eyes find Gwen's, and he knows she hears it too.

Looking up, the warlock sees Kilgharrah flying in circles above their heads.

"Magic!" Ygraine cries delighted, pointing to the phoenix. If the child hears the sorrowful undertones to his singing, she doesn't give any indication.

* * *

 **Next chapter (which will _not_ take an outrageous amount of time to be published):**

An attempted assassination yields Camelot a new ally. Merlin is reunited with an old friend. Unfortunately, the circunstances of the reunion could not be more dire.


	4. From one problem to another

**Chapter summary:** Merlin reflects upon recent events. Meanwhile, a desperate visitor comes to Camelot in search of aid.

* * *

 **A/N:** In this chapter I played a bit with writing in the past tense. Hope it's not bothersome.

* * *

 **Chapter 4: From one problem to another**

* * *

"I know, Kilgharrah. But I can't just abandon them!" Merlin is saying frustratedly, looking up.

Far above the ramparts the warlock currently sits on, the phoenix cuts through the clouds in the sky. The bird is a bright flash of scarlet and gold among soft white. Mid flight, he turns around and dives towards Merlin. For a moment, it looks like Kilgharrah will actually crash right on top of the young man, but he gracefully swoops up again, with a long and melodious – if slightly reproachful – cry.

Dejectedly, Merlin shakes his head. Only now can he fully appreciate how horrible it must have been for the magical bird to spend who knew how long caged inside those enchanted bars. The warlock is feeling like that himself more often than not, the last few months. Oppressed, strangled, suffocated.

After all those months traveling, meeting magical creatures, doing something meaningful with his magic… He could almost pretend his purpose hadn't died with Arthur.

Now that he is stuck in Camelot, he feels rather useless.

Merlin wonders if this is the choice Anhora had warned him about all those months ago. Should he leave and continue for the search of his purpose elsewhere? Or should he stay, and make himself useful where he can?

The only reason Merlin can still see for his continued presence in Camelot is the protection of the queen and the princess. The warlock knows that – unlikely as it might be – there could still be sorcerers and sorceresses loyal to Morgana's ideals, and who would like nothing best than to see their mistress avenged. Though recent events have made him question whether the royal family even requires his protection anymore.

* * *

A few weeks before, Gwen had been parading through the lower part of the citadel, Ygraine in her arms, when tragedy nearly struck.

It was the princess' one year anniversary and celebrations were being held throughout Camelot. The queen, being always one to value all her citizens, even the lower classes – after all, she had been one of them the better part of her life –, never missed an opportunity to show her love and consideration for the people. So she took Ygraine to meet her subjects, much to their delight.

Many safety precautions were taken, such as that they would be accompanied by Leon's most trusted knights, along with the man himself, and that guards would observe the proceedings from the crowds, making sure that no one suspicious would approach the royal party. Merlin himself was accompanying Gwen and her daughter, magic at the ready in case anyone tried anything.

Things were going perfectly. Ygraine seemed to be having the time of her life, laughing and smiling at the people waving merrily at them, reaching with her arms for the colorful toys and cloths offered as gifts – which were always carefully inspected by Percival before a few were passed on to the princess' eager hands.

As for the common folk, they were completely besotted by the beautiful, sweet girl, who looked at them with expressions of indiscriminate joy and contentment, no matter how humble was the token offered.

The party had reached the last square they were to stop before heading back to the castle when a young woman approached the queen and the princess. The commoner had impossibly long pitchblack hair, falling in complicated braids behind her back. She was otherwise unremarkable, except for her thick, beautifully sculpted eyebrows, which contrasted with her sickly pale skin. On her hands there was a braided leather necklace.

It was a beautiful piece of work, the leather strippes so thin Merlin wondered how the craftswoman had managed to cut and intertwine them so skillfully.

"A small present for the princess," mumbled the dark-haired girl, bowing low, as Percival examined the accessory, before passing it on.

"Thank you," said Gwen sincerely, and prepared to place the gift around her daughter's neck.

Just as she was about to adjust the fastenings, Merlin felt cold dread grow from the pit of his stomach. He opened his mouth to shout at the queen to let go of it–

"Stop!" A voice called from the crowd. "The necklace is cursed!"

Another young woman stepped forwards in the crowd. Her hair was the same pitchblack shade of the first girl's, her skin just as pale and her onyx eyes framed by equally thick eyebrows. The warlock knew immediately they could only be sisters.

Gwen threw the piece of leather away, at the same time the people started shrieking in fright and Leon and the knights shouted for order, while Percival tried to shield the queen carrying the princess with his bulky form.

In the confusion, Merlin barely managed to see when the first woman raised her fist menacingly, a dagger in her hand, and started muttering an enchantment, eyes glowing gold.

" _Hypeseax cwele Pendragon ierfa!_ "

As the looming words made the weapon fly right at Ygraine's chest, unnaturally evading Percival attempts to block it, the warlock readied himself to slow down time to get the princess and the queen to safety.

" _Forsete!_ " Cried the second sister, before Merlin managed to work his magic, making the dagger fall harmlessly to the ground.

All around them, people gasped in shock. Some pointed horrified at the sorceress who tried to kill the innocent baby, while others gazed in admiration at the one who prevented the disaster. Ygraine was sobbing desperately into her mother's chest, clearly terrified at all the confusion.

"You would side with the scum who killed the rightful heir to the throne?!" Shrieked the first woman in mad rage, pointing resentifully at the other.

With a flash of his eyes, Merlin gagged and tied the would-be-murderer, as the knights moved in to arrest her.

"I side with the people who brought back the old ways!" Replied the other, panting slightly, as she too was detained by guards, though not so forcefully. "I side with the queen who embraces magic and respects the people, no matter their blood."

As the tumult died down, Gwen passed Ygraine to Merlin, with whom she would be safest. The child went willingly to his arms, taking comfort in his familiar and soothing presence. As the girl clutched tightly to the warlock's coat and handkerchief, he murmured comforting nonsense against her hair, all the while flickering his watchful gaze around.

Gwen ordered the knights and guards to lock the assassin in the dungeons to wait for trial and turned her back on her without a second glance. Her expression was coldy impassive. Then, she ordered the rest of the group, including the other sorceress in their custody, to return to the castle at once.

Once inside, Gwen arranged for a hearing in the throne room, to question the woman who apparently saved her daughter's life.

"Who are you?" The queen demanded briskly, after they had settled.

Ygraine had long since been sent to the nursery, and Gaius and Alice had been called from the physician's chambers and informed about what had transpired. Gwen sat on the throne, gazing down imperiously at the sorceress who, though unbonded, was watched carefully by all guards and knights. Merlin stood tense and guarded by the queen's right side, while Sir Leon stood on her left. The physicians and other council members called to the impromptu hearing remained on the sidelines.

"Idina, Your Majesty," replied the woman, bowing her head. "I am one of the last few of the Bendrui," she told them.

Gwen seemed puzzled at the name, but Merlin recognized.

"A Bendrui? Like Finna?" He asked quickly, remembering remorsefully the woman who had died for him.

Somberly, the sorceress nodded. "She was my mother."

The queen glanced questionly at the warlock, who quickly explained about the group of women who trained to be High Priestess but did not meet the exceptionally high standards.

"And the other woman?" Asked Sir Leon suspiciously.

"Fiona, my sister," responded Idina.

The queen raised an eyebrow.

"From what my advisor tells me," she said, nodding at Merlin, "Finna died at Morgana's hands. Why would your sister support the woman who killed your mother?"

Regretfully, Idina looked down, her long dark hair obscuring her face from view.

"My family suffered greatly during the Purge," she began softly. "My parents lived on the Isle of the Blessed, and trained to become high priest and priestess. I had not been born yet, but my sister was a young girl at that time. She saw when the sacred grounds were attacked and the people decimated. My pregnant mother managed to escape with her, but my father was killed." Idina brushed wetness from her eyes, but otherwise gave no sign that such a horrible tale was anything but that, a tale. "Fiona never forgave the Pendragons."

Gwen nodded in understanding and sympathy, but Merlin was still unconvinced.

"When I met Finna," he spoke up, drawing attention from all in the room, "she was a devotee to the Catha and to Emrys."

"She was," confirmed the sorceress, "because she believed in the prophecies about you, Emrys," she said looking directly into the warlock's eyes. Merlin shifted uncomfortably on his feet, but held her gaze and did not contradict her. "Finna believed you would bring back the old ways and return magic to the land." She smiled for the first time. "As did I, rightfully so." At that, Idina bowed lowly, even more so than she had for the queen, a fact that was not missed by the men and women around them. Curiously, the knights and council members puzzled at Merlin.

"Your sister did not, though," he stated, ignoring the looks and whispers.

"No, she did not," the woman confirmed. "Despite all evidence to the contrary, she believed that the magical folk's only hope was the witch Morgana, and soon joined her ranks, much to my mother's horror. Even now," she continued, eyes far away, "Fiona believes that the princess will one day turn against magic and that we will be shunned once again. When I heard her enchanting that necklace to suffocate anyone who puts it on," she revealed, making Merlin close his fists tightly against horrible images of baby Ygraine dying, "I knew she planned something foolish, and I knew I had to stop her."

An uneasy silence spread around the throne room. All eyes went to the queen, who looked at Idina consideringly.

"You saved Princess Ygraine," she said at last. "And for that you will be handsomely rewarded. However," Gwen continued, expression hardening, "I cannot allow a woman who would attempt against my daughter's life to walk away unpunished. Fiona will be imprisoned for life and her magic–" She glanced briefly at Merlin, who assented. "Bound forever."

Idina gasped loudly at that, but did not dare contradict the queen.

"You are most generous, Your Majesty," she said instead, "to spare my sister's life, when she would so gladly end yours and your daughter's. I cannot ask for any other reward. However," she paused momentarily, as if steeling herself, "I would offer my life and services to you and the princess. I would pledge my life to Your Majesty, to fight and die for you and yours. I would place my magic at your command, my queen."

People traded whispers and looks. Never before had they witnessed a sorcerer publically express the wish to serve the royal family. As far as most of them were concerned, such a fact was unprecedented.

Merlin and Gaius' eyes met, and understanding easily passed through their gaze.

As much as the warlock wanted to believe there were others with magic who saw the queen for who she was and who were willing to use their talents to aid and protect her, years of experience thwarting murder attempts, love enchantments and other foul plots made Merlin weary of any sorcerer trying to place themselves close to the court of Camelot.

"I want to believe you speak the truth," the warlock said, before Gwen had a chance to open her mouth, "but, alas, empty words have deceived me before." His tone was not harsh, but his posture was unyielding.

Idina inclined her head in acceptance. "I understand, my Lord," she replied quietly. "It is wise of you to doubt my claims, when you know nothing about me. I invite you, then," the sorceress took a few steps towards Merlin and kneeled in front of him, "to look and see the truth in my heart."

Gwen and Sir Leon looked questionly at the warlock, wondering about such an odd request. The raven-haired young man simply stared fixedly at the woman on the floor.

 _Emrys_ , she spoke inside his head, in that eerily way the Druids had often done. _I swear to you, nothing will bring me as much joy as giving my life to defend and aid the people responsible for welcoming all magical folk back under their protection._ Her gaze flickered meaningful at the queen. _What is more, I feel indebted to the woman who spared my sister's life. It was well within her rights to demand for her execution, but she chose to show mercy instead. Queen Guinevere is a ruler I will gladly follow, should you allow me._

Focusing his magic and his mind, Merlin attempted something he had only played with before, he plunged himself into another's consciousness, going past the superficial words and feelings, to reach what lies underneath. One's heart – or is it mind? Soul? – was a maze of emotions, sensations, memories, scattered thoughts, impressions, fantasies, dreams… The warlock could easily have become lost in it all, that which so many threads to follow, so much smells pulling at him. Instead, he focused on Idina's true feelings about the queen, the princess, Camelot, her sister, and even himself.

It was only when he pulled back, that Merlin realized he was being watched by two dozens pairs of eyes in different states of wonder and fright. In front of him, Idina was panting on the floor, clearly trembling, deeply perturbed. As their gazes crossed, the warlock felt distinctly uncomfortable, the sort of feeling you get when walking in on something private and intimate.

Turning to meet Gwen's eyes, the warlock nodded once. Still somewhat mystified by what had just happened, the queen arched an eyebrow, indicating that they would have words later, before turning to the woman who still awaited a response.

"It would be an honor," she said regally, "to accept your pledge." Getting to her feet, the queen let her eyes wander at the small crowd gathered there. "Rise, Idina," she turned to the woman once again, "Protector of Camelot."

As the sorceress stood on shaking legs, a grateful smile on her lips, Merlin led an enthusiastic round of applause for the girl.

 _Thank you, Emrys_ , she had murmured without moving her lips. _I will not disappoint you.  
_

* * *

And indeed, she hadn't, thinks Merlin, as Kilgharrah lands on his shoulder, apparently done with being ignored.

"You are much too big for this," complains the warlock, as he almost topples over. But he caresses his friend's wings nonetheless, still lost in thought.

Idina has proved herself to be a kind, dedicated sorceress, whose magic is strong and well-trained, especially in defensive spells. And although her abilities can not begin to compare to the power wielded by the high priestesses of old, she is knowledgeable and resourceful enough to be both useful in council matters and efficient as the queen and princess' guard and protector. If he was to travel for a few months, Merlin is confident he would be leaving Camelot in good hands.

"It would be quite nice to put all this magic to good use again, wouldn't it, Kilgharrah?" He asks the phoenix distractedly, looking at the sun as it slowly disappears in the horizon.

The bird doesn't answer, simply jumps into the air and vanishes in a flash, as Merlin had quickly learned he was prone to.

The warlock sighs and prepares to descend from the ramparts. As his feet touch the ground a familiar voice rings in his mind.

 _Merlin_ , calls Alice in her honeyed tone, _Queen Guinevere wishes to see you in the throne room immediately_.

The young man had been surprised to learn the old sorceress was also able to communicate through thoughts. It did make it easier to contact Gaius in case of a medical emergency, though.

 _Is everything alright?_ Merlin sends back worriedly.

In response, the warlock gets an image of a young boy crying silently, clutching the hand of a tall, brown-haired man. The man's face is turned away from Alice and towards the throne, where Gwen sits, lips tightly pressed together.

 _Send word that I'm coming_ , he tells her, closing his eyes. When he opens them again, he is standing beside the queen. As he looks up to gasps of surprise, he is met with a face he hasn't seen in many years.

"Gilli!" The warlock exclaims, stepping forwards to shake the other sorcerer's hand.

"Merlin, it's good to see you," the man replies, gripping his arm firmly. "I only wish it was under better circumstances," his tone is mournful.

The warlock is about to ask what's happened, when a choking sound turns his attention downwards, to the boy by Gilli's side.

"What is your name?" Merlin asks gently as he kneels to be at eye level with the child, who cannot be older than 5.

"G-Galahad, my Lord," mumbles the gray-eyed boy, gazing tearfully at the warlock.

"Well, Galahad," Merlin replies, "I promise you this: we will do everything in our power to help you."

The boy smiles a little at that.

"Why don't we go see your mama and let the adults continue their talks?" Says Alice stepping in and placing a hand on Galahad's shoulder.

The child glances up questiongly at Gilli, who nods encouragingly. With that, the sorceress takes the distressed boy away.

As the doors close again, Gwen gestures for their visitor to proceed.

Merlin takes his usual place besides the throne, trading quick looks with Idina, who stands a few steps behind the queen, and with Sir Leon. Both of them look somber. The warlock searches for Gaius and Percival among the people present, but does not succeed in finding the former.

"Shall I begin from the start, Your Majesty?" Inquires Gilli, glancing in Merlin's direction. At the queen's assent, he takes a deep breath. "As I told you, although I was born in Camelot's lands, I left the kingdom years ago, in search for a purpose to my–my magic," he stumbles on the word, as if afraid Uther's men would jump him. "I journeyed far north, and came across a fishing village in Deira, its inhabitants call it Wellera – 'the town full of fishes'. There I met a good woman, with whom I fathered a beautiful boy, Galahad." Merlin gasps, surprised at the revelation, though in retrospect he really shouldn't be: the boy has the same sad, blueish-gray eyes as Gilli's. "We lived in happiness and in peace," continues the sorcerer, twisting the ring on his finger absentmindedly, "until a few months ago, when terrible, cursed creatures began attacking the people, driving them i-insane."

"What sort of creature do you speak of?" Demands the queen, over frightened intakes of breath from the court and common folk.

"A creature of dark magic," says Gilli promptly. "These creatures come from the sea at night, they break into our homes, making the fires go out and the air become bitterly cold. W-when t-they approach," his voice breaks a little, but he forges on, "they make you empty and hopeless inside, you remember h-horrible things – things you thought you had forgotten. They make you feel so cold, that you forget what warmth feels like."

Gwen shoots Merlin a look, but the warlock is as puzzled as she is.

"You said people are driven insane by these creatures?" The queen prompts gently.

Gilli nods. "If they stay with someone for too long, the person–" He cuts himself off, looking away. "It's hard to explain. The victim doesn't die, not exactly. They still draw breath and eat, but they don't speak anymore, nor do they seem to hear when others talk to them. They don't feel pain, or cold, or anything anymore. They just… exist."

"Is that what happened to Galahad's mother?" Sir Leon asks, voice subdued.

Gilli's eyes water at the question. "One night I left home to gather more firewood," he says, guilt maring his voice, "when I came back, I found one of the creatures had broken in and was looming over her. I used the strongest magic I knew to drive them away, b-but by then it was too late. When I turned her over, Lynn's eyes were empty and soulless, as they have been ever since." Tears run freely down the man's cheeks. "I knew Camelot had changed the laws regarding sorcery, so I decided to come back here to look for a cure. I had met Merlin before," he lets his eyes wander to the other man, "and I knew he worked with the court physician. If anyone can cure my wife, it is them."

"I will do everything in my power," the warlock vows solemnly. "If there is a way to cure her, Gaius and Alice will find it. Lynn is in the best hands."

Brushing away the wetness, Gilli bows. "Thank you, Merlin."

The queen stands up swiftly.

"You and your family are welcome to stay in Camelot as long as you desire," she offers. "Suitable accommodations will be prepared, and I will see to it that you and Galahad want for nothing."

Gilli once again bows lowly, and Merlin fully appreciates how much the young man has changed since the last time they saw each other, some nine years ago. If then he was a shy, insecure boy, now he is a confident, strong man, a father, a husband. "I'm forever indebted to you, Your Majesty," he sorcerer says humbly.

Gwen nods in acknowledgement before turning to her right.

"Merlin, I want you to work closely with Gaius and Alice to find a cure to this–disease," she orders briskly.

"On it, my Lady," he replies, already walking towards the door, motioning for Gilli to accompany him.

"Sir Leon," the queen looks at the knight, "I want scouts sent to all villages under Camelot's protection. We must find out if these creatures have reached our borders."

"They will be ready to leave within the hour, Your Majesty," is Leon's assured response.

"Idina," Gwen calls, making the sorceress step forwards from the shadows. "You are to look for a way to destroy these creatures. Ask Geoffrey of Monmouth for help, if you need to consult any library books."

"Will do, my Queen," bows the dark haired woman.

A jittery silence follows.

"May the gods protect us all," are the last, muttered words Merlin hears from Gwen, before the doors are closed behind them.

* * *

Of all the tasks the queen has set them, Sir Leon is the only one who is met with any success.

"The last of the scouts have returned," he reports a fortnight later, during a small council meeting. "There are no signs of the creatures inside Camelot's borders."

Gwen nods at the knight, a weight apparently lifting from her shoulders. Percival shares a grin with Idina, both of them looking relieved. Gaius and Merlin glance at each other briefly, expressions betraying their uneasiness.

"Have you made any progress in finding a cure?" The queen asks, turning to the physician and the warlock.

Gaius shakes his head somberly. "We have tried everything," he says, "from common treatments to magical ones. Nothing has proven to be effective, and the patient continues in the same comatose state in which she arrived. We remain baffled."

"It is our belief," Merlin adds, drawing their attention, "that the condition is incurable. I tried–" He clears his throat uncomfortably. "Reaching into her mind. But there is nothing there. No feeling, no thought. It's like she is not a person anymore, just an empty shell."

Gwen assents mournfully. "Has Gilli been informed yet?"

"He has," confirms Merlin, eyes betraying the sadness he feels. "And he has asked–" The warlock cuts himself off, looking at Gaius.

"He has asked that we put an end to the poor woman's suffering," the physician continues, coming to his ward's aid. "I will respect his wishes," Gaius tells them, "if you would permit it, my Lady."

"If you are sure there is nothing to be done, and if that's what the family wants, you have my permission, Gaius," she replies, a slight tremor to her words. "Now, Idina," the queen begins, turning to the woman in question, "have you discovered anything about these creatures that might help us destroy them?"

The sorceress straightens up in her chair a little, as she always does when addressed by the royal.

"Unfortunately, I have not, Your Majesty," she says regretfully. "In all my years of studying magic and magical beings, I have never heard about a creature known to provoke such effects on their victims. My research in the library has not been fruitful either. Geoffrey has reported that he will continue looking, but that he does not believe he is likely to find anything useful." Idina pauses in her report, and her gaze flickers quickly to Percival, who nods in encouragement. "According to Gilli's tale, only strong magic is capable of repelling the creatures, so my hypothesis is that they must have been created unnaturally by magic. That would explain why there is no record of them and why only magic is able to affect them."

"What do you think of this hypothesis, Gaius?" Inquires Gwen.

"It is possible," the physician confirms. Then, his gaze flutters away, and he looks thoughtful. "Indeed," he continues in a murmur, mostly to himself, "to affect both soul and mind like this…" Gaius trails off, unaware of the confused glances exchanged between the other people on the table.

"What do you mean, Gaius?" Sir Leon asks, leaning forward in his seat.

The physician visibly shakes himself, and his eyes are clear when he meets the knight's.

"Are you all familiar with the concept of spirit?" Gaius inquires expectantly.

Merlin nods hesitantly, and looks around to see the others doing the same.

"The spirit, also known as soul," the physician proceeds, seating back and resting his hands on his lap, "is commonly believed to contain the essence of humanity. Our feelings, our thoughts, as well as our sensations, desires, beliefs and memories. In short, everything that makes us human. The body, on the other hand, contains what some call the 'life-force' of living creatures, and relies on physiological mechanisms of survival. While the body is mortal and finite, the soul is immortal and carries on even after death."

"And what of magic?" Merlin interrupts, mind reeling with half-formed questions. "Is magic something of the soul, or of the body?"

Gaius smiles approvingly at his ward. "This is a problem many scholars, both magical and secular, have debated over the centuries. Most defend that magic is directly connected to the soul, seeing as its influences run deeper than mere flesh and bone. A few argue that magic is so intrinsic to the life-force that it must depend upon the body."

"What do you believe?" Gwen asks, a tilt in her head urging the court physician.

The old man sighs. "Both propositions have its merits," he allows. "But I find myself intrigued by a third, less well-known view."

From the end of the table a gasp is heard, and all heads turn to face Idina, whose expression is one of comical surprise. "Surely you don't mean Mad Maeve's theorem?" She asks in astonishment.

"Why 'Mad' Maeve?" Leon cuts in before Gaius has the chance to answer.

Pointedly, the physician clears his throat. "Maeve was a gifted – if unorthodox – witch known for teaching young sorcerers and sorceresses the magical arts from an early age. Most of her work was lost during the Purge," Gaius' eyes turn momentarily mournful, "but I managed to salvage one of her books. She proposes an unique and creative answer to the soul-body paradox."

"She is also known for advocating that ants and ladybugs are actually the trapped ghosts of the dead," Idina mutters under her breath, causing Percival to snort with laughter.

The court physician completely ignores the interruption. "According to her, magic belongs in neither soul nor body," he explains, "but is actually the thread that binds both together."

Gaius is met with doubtful and thoughtful expressions.

"That would mean that everyone has magic?" Gwen inquiries in a pondering tone.

"Such an idea is preposterous," Sir Leon lets slip out. At the glares he receives, the knight turns bright red. "I just mean," he hurries to amend, "that magic is an ability few possess."

Merlin's thoughts are miles away. "Not necessarily," he whispers, unheard, remembering the revelation of the truth of Arthur's birth, so many years ago.

It had been a while since the warlock last thought of it, but at the time the idea that the son of the man who hated magic more than anything only lived due to this mysterious power had been eye-opening.

As Merlin has learned, magic is in the very fabric of the world, so why would it not be in every living being as well? Not everyone develops the ability surely, but is it not true for so many other talents?

Well, not quite, the warlock thinks, sagging a little, and especially not for him. Emrys. Magic itself. How can one compare the latent potential for music, or medicine, or cooking, with the seeds of magic, which seems to have a will of its own half of the time?

He is so preoccupied that Merlin almost misses Gaius' answer. "Personally, I believe that magic is inherently connected to life, independently of the shape it takes." The physician's words have a tone of finality to them.

"Speculations aside," the queen interjects, stalling further discussion on the topic, "let us return to the matter at hand."

Gaius bows his head. "Yes, forgive me, my lady. I do tend to get carried away in this intriguing subject." At Gwen' affectionate smile, he moves on. "As I was saying, if we are to believe that there is indeed a distinction between the body and the soul – or however you prefer to call them –, it would seem that the creatures which attacked Gilli's village prey only upon the soul, leaving the body whole and undamaged."

Gwen's mouth opens with shock. "He said that his wife's eyes became soulless..."

The physician nods somberly. "Gilli may not have known at the time, but his assessment is precise."

"Do you mean to say," Leon is horrified, "that the victims lose their souls to these monsters?"

"Every memory, every feeling," Idina mumbles quietly, "everything that they are."

No one is able to speak for a long time after that. When Percival finally breaks the silence, his voice is subdued and his eyes downcast.

"It is a fate worse than death. One I would not wish upon my worst enemy."

His words seem to bring Merlin out of his stupor.

"We have to go help them," he says decidedly.

Instead of the quick agreement the warlock thought he would find, Gwen and Leon share a long look.

"I have considered this," the queen says quietly yet firmly. "But we cannot spare the resources such a campaign would require. The creatures do not seem to be approaching our borders and we cannot send our men to foreign lands with no concrete means of defending themselves. I'm sorry, Merlin," she continues, unrelenting, when he opens his mouth to interrupt, "but my decision is final. For the moment, it appears we are safe. We will continue to look for a means to vanquish the creatures, but until we have, I will have no Camelot citizen lose their lives in such a cruel way."

Merlin stands up abruptly. "I can go," he says. "There will be no need to risk any lives, I work better on my own, anyways."

"We would be risking your life, Merlin," Gwen points out kindly. "And I cannot have that."

"No, you would not," the warlock blurts out, before biting his lip at the confused looks he gets. "I-I mean," he tries to backtrack, "I can use magic to defend myself, so I wouldn't be at risk, really."

The others still look unconvinced.

"It is too dangerous, Merlin," says Leon, in his calm, reasonable tone. "It is as the queen said, our people are safe. We must keep them that way, and not spread our resources thin in the defense of a village beyond our protection."

The warlock is not appeased by this, if anything, he is more determined to go.

"I understand that your responsibilities lie here in Camelot," he tells the five of them, looking at each in turn, "but mine know no borders. The whole of Albion is my responsibility, all the living beings who inhabit it – be it people or animals, be it citizens of this kingdom or nomad Druids." Merlin pauses briefly, and at that moment he knows that, impossibly, Kilgharrah, the phoenix, and Aithusa, the last dragon, are both listening in. "If it is in my power to help someone, I will," he finishes solemnly.

And with that, he turns around and strides from the room, leaving his friends to stare at his back regretfully.

* * *

Merlin wonders at how much he's changed.

Once, it would have been unimaginable for him to leave Camelot.

Once, he would have put providing support for those closest to him before anything or anyone.

But now, even as he holds on to Ygraine and smiles back at her happy blabbering, the warlock knows that – as much as it might pain him – his place is not here, not for the moment, at least. People need him elsewhere, so elsewhere is where he must be.

"I'm going to miss you terribly," he confesses to the uncomprehending child, as she tries to rid him off his handkerchief – either that, or strangle him. "I'll think of you every moment when I'm away," Merlin promises, biting back tears.

Ygraine finally manages to wrench the red cloth from his neck, and stuffs it into her tiny mouth, a slight frown appearing in her innocent face.

"I know it won't be the same thing," the warlock replies dejectedly. "But you and your mum will be in the best hands. You'll have all the knights at your disposal, including Sir Leon and Sir Percival, and they are the best," he tries to mollify the girl, with little success. "There will also be Gaius and Alice and Idina. Come on, I know you like Idina. She can do the trick with the lights just as well as I can."

The child seems to disagree strongly, for she almost lets the handkerchief drop from her grasp as she tries to poke him in the eyes.

"Alright, alright, Your Highness," Merlin's tone in mildly affronted, like the one he reserved for the days Arthur was being particularly prattish. But he raises his palm obligingly and, with a flash of his eyes, makes a glowing orb of light appear from thin air.

Ygraine squeals in delighted laughter, and reaches for the orb.

"Okay," the warlock concedes grudgingly, "perhaps her orbs are not as shiny as mine. But still!" He hurries to add, as if the girl would use the admittance against him. "She can do all sorts of cool things."

The blue eyed child appears distracted enough not to try to contradict him, and lets herself be lulled by the soft humming of his magic against her.

When Merlin places her back into the crib, soundly asleep and still holding on tightly to his handkerchief, the warlock decides that – just this once – he will let the Pendragon have the last word.

As he leaves the nursery to look for Gaius, Merlin is bare necked.

x

* * *

"Gaius?" Merlin calls as he enters the physician's chambers without knocking. "I need to talk to–"

 _Shhh!_ A sharp hiss sounds in his head. _Keep your voice down, please_.

"Sorry, Alice," the warlock whispers, reddening at his thoughtlessness and taking in the scene.

Lynn's motionless form lies on a bed at the corner, she is covered in thick blankets, her eyes are open, still unseeing, and her hands rest atop the covers. Besides her, tucked in the tiny space not occupied by the woman and in an angle that should not be possible, lies Galahad, sound asleep and clutching to his mother's hands.

 _He has just managed to fall asleep,_ Alice explains from her seat next to the duo. _The boy needs his rest. This is taking quite the toll on his health_.

Merlin, a physician in his own right, recognizes the sleep deprivation in the shadows under Galahad's eyes and malnourishment in the paleness of his skin. But it is the tear tracks still wet on his cheeks that truly tell of his suffering.

 _Gaius and I have spoken with the queen_ , the warlock sends quietly, taking a vacant seat besides the old sorceress, _she agrees with our decision._

Alice lets out a relieved sigh, smiling sadly at Merlin. _It is for the best…_

 _Is it really?_ Merlin asks rather scornfully, not able to contain himself. _A child will lose his mother, a husband his wife. How can murdering someone be for the best?_

As soon as the hurtful words escape him, the warlock feels shame prickle the back of his neck. It isn't Alice's fault. He shouldn't be taking out his frustrations on her.

He turns to apologize, but finds that she doesn't seem angry or offended. If anything, the sorceress is thoughtful.

 _You know, Merlin_ , she begins softy, reaching out to take his hand in hers, _you are often faced with impossible decisions. In childbirth, for example. There are times that saving the mother means allowing the child to die. Other times, saving the child is what kills the mother. Sometimes it is possible to save them both, or none at all. But we hardly ever know what the case is._ Alice squeezes his palm, smiling kindly. _We make the choice to the best of our abilities, and pray not to have chosen wrong._

The warlock swallows dryly. _What if we are choosing wrong, now?_ He demands, half afraid of the answer.

To his surprise, the healer's smile doesn't waver. _Sometimes to care for someone doesn't mean doing everything in our power to keep them alive, but rather allowing them to let go._

The sorceress rises to her feet, as the door creaks open and Gaius steps inside. Alice is already busy shushing the physician silent and preparing herbs for a new poultice when her final words echo in Merlin's mind.

 _I think it is safe to assume we are choosing right, this time_.

The warlock allows her reassurances to appease his doubts for the moment, and gets up to approach the physician, who is looking at him with a mixture of concern and reprobation in his eyebrows.

"Can we talk?" Merlin whispers. The old man assents and they quietly relocate to Alice's room.

As soon as the door falls shut, the warlock braces himself for furious admonitions and reprimands.

"I understand why you–" Gaius begins gently.

"I'm sorry," Merlin interrupts. "I know I shouldn't have–" He stops short, realizing what his mentor had been saying. "You–You are not mad."

The physician chuckles, sitting on the bed and gesturing for his ward to follow. "If you would just listen, for once," he tries again, "I would say that I understand why you feel it is your responsibility to go help these people. I know you've been restless for a few months now, and that this quest will give you a chance to resolve some of the questions that are bothering you."

The warlock looks away, embarrassed. "It's not that I'm not happy with–" He begins, but Gaius cuts him with a raised hand.

"I know, my dear boy," the physician says. "Your conflict comes from within," he assertains sagely. "So do what you must. You have my unconditional support. I have already said so to the queen, after you left in such a dramatic fashion–"

Before he quite knows what he is doing, Merlin finds himself enveloping the physician in a tight hug. "Thanks, Gaius," he murmurs as he lets go. "It means a lot."

The old sorcerer pats his ward on the knee reassuringly. "You will be dearly missed," he tells him, voice rougher than normal. "So don't keep us waiting for long."

* * *

 **Next chapter:**

Merlin embarks on his perilous adventure. Fortunately, he is not alone, for it will take more than raw power to stop the creatures preying on Wellera's villagers.


	5. From Camelot to Deira

**Chapter summary:** After receiving terrible news from Ealdor, Merlin decides to leave Camelot with haste. Sooner rather than later, though, he'll have to face all the truths he's been running from.

* * *

 **Chapter 5: From Camelot to Deira**

* * *

"Are you sure about this?" Asks the warlock for the third time that morning.

When Gilli had learned of Merlin's intentions to look for the creatures that had taken his wife's life, the young man had insisted on accompanying him on the journey.

"I am," the sorcerer replies a little forcefully. "Galahad will be fine," he says, before Merlin has the chance to come up with the same argument. "I won't be gone for long, and he's grown quite fond of Alice and Leon in the weeks we've been in the castle. They will take good care of him." His tone is assured, and it is only the way his eyes flicker back towards the citadel that betrays how difficult it is for him to be parted from his son. "And besides," Gilli forges on, "if I can help vanquish the creatures that took Lynn from me, I will." He cannot hide how his voice breaks at that. "Remember what you taught me? My magic is not meant to see to my own selfish ends. It is meant for something greater. This is my chance to finally prove myself."

Merlin holds his tongue, it is too late to turn back now anyways. They have already said their goodbyes earlier that day. The warlock shifts uncomfortably in his saddle, as he remembers Gwen's quiet request that he takes care of himself and Gaius' routine reminder of 'don't be an idiot'. Both of them seemed to tremble in his arms as he hugged them, and Merlin hysterically wondered if he wasn't making a huge mistake in departing as he did.

He had decided to leave somewhat hastily, the warlock admits to himself. But he felt he had little choice in the matter. Who knew how many people had already succumbed to the creatures by now? Moreover, after that letter had arrived, Merlin couldn't bear to sit still and do nothing, least painful thoughts overcome him.

The day after Lynn's funeral, a messenger had arrived from Ealdor. Eager for news on his mother's health, Merlin had quickly ripped the envelope apart. But instead of the familiar curves of her writing, he was met with a stranger's uneven calligraphy.

The message was from Erin, the girl Hunith had been training as healer and midwife. She told Merlin in tear-stained words that his mother had grown weak with sickness again, and had not recovered.

Merlin didn't even have the chance to go to the funeral. The small ceremony had been held three days before the letter reached Camelot.

When the warlock had tried to pass the paper to Gaius with his shaking hands, so that he could understand why tears choked Merlin into speechlessness – how was he expected to put into words that his mother was gone, that he would never again smell her familiar sent, or hug her thin frame, or hear her homey laughter? – the letter burst into uncontrollable flames, which kept burning long after there was any paper left to fuel the fire.

It was only when Kilgharrah appeared out of nowhere and began singing the most beautiful and sincere lament Merlin had ever heard that the message was finally allowed to turn into ashes, and the warlock managed to stop sobbing.

A few days later, when the warlock had risen from his seat in the small council room and declared that he would be departing before dawn, no one dared contradict him. It felt like both a victory and a defeat.

"We have to turn left here," points Gilli, bringing Merlin out of his troubled reminiscences.

"Lead the way," the warlock returns, making a brave attempt at a grin. He has a mission to accomplish, and nothing will be gained from dwelling in things he cannot change. "Are you coming, Kilgharrah?" He shoots over his shoulder at the bird, who seems more preoccupied with chasing squirrels than following the horses.

The phoenix lets out a high-pitched chirp, clearly annoyed at having his diversion cut short, but takes off after Merlin nonetheless.

Gilli is gaping open-mouthed at the magical creature. "I still can't believe you have an actual firebird as a pet," he says in an amazed tone.

"A phoenix," corrects the warlock easily, and at the admonishing shriek from Kilgharrah completes, "and not a pet. A friend."

Pacified, the bird begins humming softly from the skies. His music quietens the misgivings in Merlin's heart.

* * *

After crossing Camelot's borders, they travel north for about a week before finally reaching the coast. The journey wasn't supposed to take so long, but Mother Nature had, well, intervened .

"And you say there is definitely nothing magical about this storm?" Though their horses are trotting side by side, Gilli still has to shout to be heard over the thunderous rain.

"I can't sense anything out of the ordinary," replies Merlin through gritted teeth. "Can you?"

The warlock thinks he sees his companion shrug. It is hard to tell with the water blurring his vision.

"I'm not the one who is a legendary, all-powerful sorcerer," Gilli replies. "So what the hell do I know?"

Merlin doesn't see the point in answering, so he redirects his attention to watching the ground for any fallen logs or large holes.

The other sorcerer doesn't seem to mind it though, and the warlock suddenly misses Gilli's old soft-spoken demeanor. "Still can't believe half the things Sir Leon told me about you, by the way. I mean, an actual fricking dragon, Merlin, really?"

Again, Merlin simply ignores his companion, and leads his horse around the unstable terrain.

The torrential, non-stopping storm had begun as soon as they entered Elmet, better known as the Perilous Lands, and still has not abated, even though they are far into Deira by now. The warlock had suspected magical meddling, but if a sorcerer or creature had indeed induced the storm they were much too subtle – or much too strong – to be detected.

From the hill they are currently crossing, Merlin can see timid threads of smoke rising in the distance against the weak light of dawn. He is not alone in spotting these.

"May the gods be blessed," Gille exhales, slumping a little on his horse. "We are finally here. Think your birdy friend is gonna show up anytime soon?" He asks, setting towards the path to the small fishing village of Wellera.

Merlin sighs and follows. "I don't know," he replies, trying to keep the annoyance from his tone.

The moment it had started raining, Kilgharrah had turned tail and vanished, apparently unwilling to subject himself to the flood. The warlock had been confident the phoenix would turn up sooner rather than later – it was not unusual to spend days without sighting the magical creature back in Camelot, only to find him inconspicuously waiting for Merlin in his chambers late at night. But the hours turned into days, and the days into a full week, and no sign of the bird.

Maybe he had abandoned them, after all, thinks the warlock despite himself. It's not like the phoenix owned Merlin anything. But he had thought they had a connection of sorts.

"It is bleaker than it was when I left," Gilli comments, expression suspiciously impassive, as they pass through the first houses, bringing Merlin back to the situation at hand. "Emptier too," he adds, gesturing to a couple of huts clearly uninhabited. "I wonder..." His sentence trails off, getting lost in a thunder.

"It doesn't look like the rain will be abating anytime soon," the warlock interrupts. "We should find shelter. Talk to the villagers, if possible. Is there a tavern or an inn nearby?"

Resolutely, the sorcerer nods and leads the way towards the pier, close to which sits the largest building Merlin has seen so far.

"Wellera's version of the Rising Sun," jokes Gilli, bringing a small smile to the other man's lips. "I welcome you to the Drowned Bottle, finest establishment north of Mercia."

And soon they've found a somewhat dry place to leave the horses, and are entering the tavern – the remains of the storm trailing down their cloaks and pooling on the floor.

Gilli is not recognized on the spot. The place is mostly empty, with only half a dozen tables occupied. All the customers appear grim and desistested in talking, barely lifting their eyes from their mugs and plates of food. Merlin has never been in a tavern so quiet – though it might be because he never went to one so early in the morning. The liveliest person about seems to be the barman, who mutters a bawdy tune under his breath, albeit with little enthusiasm.

As the pair takes seats at the bar, the eyes of the man behind the counter finally glint in recognition and he stops his mutterings.

"Gilli, my man!" The balding barman exclaims, booming voice cutting the deadly silence. "I never thought I'd see you again!"

The sorcerer chuckles mirthlessly. "I never thought I'd be back, Olle" he confesses.

"And did you manage to find a cure for your poor wife?" The man asks, lowering his tone, eyes betraying his hope.

Men and women are looking up at them, now. Not hopeful, exactly – their eyes remain too empty for such a strong emotion –, but mildly expectant, at least.

Gilli doesn't say anything, just shakes his head, and Olle sags visibly.

"My sincere condolences to you and your boy," the barman mumbles. "Where is young Galahad? I didn't see him enter with you."

The sorcerer shares a glance with Merlin, before replying. "I left him back at Camelot. Thought it safer for him there."

Olle nods in understanding, bringing two mugs of ale and placing them in front of both of them. "Ah, yes," he says, some forced cheer in his words, "the Golden Kingdom. I take it your friend comes from there?" The barman asks, looking directly at Merlin for the first time.

"I do," the warlock says. "I came here to help you get rid of the creatures preying on the village, like the one that attacked Lynn."

Olle's startled expression would have been comical, if it wasn't so sad.

"But that is impossible," he denies. "No weapon can kill them, no locked door detain them. Not even magic has much of an effect on these horrid creatures." At Merlin's surprised look at the casual mention of magic, the barman snorts. "Nah, here in Deira the laws against sorcery were never as rigid as in Camelot. I myself have never dabbled in the arts, but my wife does know a trick or two with fire. You dare not contradict her when she is in a bad mood! Ha!" Olle shows them a burn mark on his arm with something resembling pride in his eyes. "But no fire the old woman called ever manages to keep the creatures away for more than a few seconds," he continues, dejectedly. "If we didn't need the pier and the boats to survive, my family would have left this god-forsaken town a long time ago, like many others did. But the sea is what keeps our mouths fed, so we have little choice but to remain and pray to survive the nights," Olle finishes bleakly, gaze roaming his customers and compatriots.

"Merlin here has been known for spitting in the face of impossibilities," Gilli interjects, skillfully avoiding the kick the warlock aimes at him under the counter. "He is the one who convinced the Queen of Camelot to lift the ban on magic."

Incredulous, the barman stares at Merlin. "You are Emrys? Actually Emrys?"

It is the warlock's turn to look back at him in surprise. "You know of me?"

Gilli chuckles at the both of them. "The Druids sometimes come to Wellera to trade," he explains. "Their herbs and remedies for our fish and ale. But we trade in tales and songs too."

Olle is nodding along. "Their best stories involve 'Emrys, the one destined to return the Old Religion to its glorious prime' or something along those lines", he tells Merlin, an amused grin on his tired face. "Thought you'd be taller," he comments as an afterthought, sizing the warlock up.

Merlin resists the tentemption of burying his face in his arms, but it is a close call.

Gilli seems amused by his discomfort, but soon takes pity on him. "We are weary from the journey," he says, changing the subject, "and interested in renting a couple of beds. If we are to hunt the creatures at dusk we'll have to be well-rested. Have anything for us?"

The barman smiles toothfully. "Wait until I tell the wife we'll be hosting the actual Emrys. Ha! She will flip," he says delightedly, before gesturing for the young men to follow him upstairs.

"Did you know this would happen?" Merlin demands of Gilli, as they jog to the upper floor.

"After I connected the dots, well… I had my hopes up," the sorcerer replies, not even pretending to be abashed.

As his friend falls flat on his face after a flash of his eyes, the warlock considers if he shouldn't be feeling guilty for abusing his powers.

The satisfaction of hearing Gilli's moan of pain makes Merlin dismiss the idea rather sadistically.

* * *

It's been a few days since the pair arrived in Wellera and settled themselves in the cheap but welcoming accommodations offered at the Drowned Bottle.

"Don't you think it strange?" Merlin asks distractedly, as they stride along darkening alleys. The few people who are left in the village have barricaded themselves in their homes and the streets are empty. The worst of the storm seems to have passed, and only a thin drizzle remains. Compared to what they have faced the past few days, the sun might as well be shining warmly.

"What?" Returns Gilli, more concerned with watching the shadows.

"How Olle seems so… normal, where everyone else is…" The warlock trails off, unable to find a word to describe the condition.

"Dead inside?" The other man completes helpfully. "I hadn't thought about that. Maybe being half drunk half of the time helps?" He wonders out loud.

"Maybe," Merlin replies halfheartedly.

It is the fourth night that they wander through the village, looking for the creatures. So far, the young men have had little luck.

"Before I left," Gilli had said, "they would come about once or twice a month. According to the people, now they appear at least once a week, if not more."

The last attack had been the night before their arrival. An old couple was found lifeless, though still breathing, in their bedroom, eyes closed, as if they were just fast asleep. They probably hadn't even realized what was happening to them, their neighbors whispered. Merlin hoped they were right.

"I've been wondering too," Gilli's admission brings his attention back to the present, "we've been here for less than a week, and I can already feel–" The sorcerer stops abruptly, looking uncomfortable.

The warlock understands him regardless. "I know," he says softly, "me too."

It is as if the constant mist that haunts the village carries more than water and air. When Merlin breathes on it, his lungs are filled with unnatural cold and stark dread. Everynight, the warlock tosses and turns in his thin mattress, fighting horrible, depressing thoughts. His slumber is filled with nightmares, the sort of which had not been so intense since the first months after Arthur's death. Merlin forces himself to remain optimistic, but every morning when he wakes up he takes longer and longer to remember why he even bothers with living anymore.

Gilli tries to smile, but he only manages a grimace. "Maybe we should drink more," he jokes weakly.

The warlock forces out a chuckle. "And have you blab more than you already do? No, thanks."

The sorcerer punches his arm playfully, and their spirits are lifted somewhat.

"Where to, now?" Merlin asks, changing the subject. They've reached the outskirts of the village, a region long abandoned by its inhabitants.

"Guess we turn back and try our chances tomorrow?" Gilli replies, frustration in his tone.

The warlock can relate. As much as he dreads coming face to face with the horrible creatures, the waiting and expectation are starting to get on his nerves too.

"I know it is a terrible thing to say," the sorcerer says sometime later, as they cross the main square, "but I wish they'd just come already."

Merlin nods in understanding. "The sooner we find them, the sooner you go back to your son."

"And you to your friends," Gilli completes, distractedly. But when the warlock doesn't say anything in response, the sorcerer stops mid-stride, forcing Merlin to halt as well.

Gilli eyes him with suspicion, and the warlock suddenly resents how perceptive his friend has proven to be. "I know you took the news about your mum hard..." The sorcerer begins with uncharacteristic hesitation. "But running away won't help."

Merlin gapes at the other man. "How do you–? I mean, I-I don't–" The warlock stumbles, caught off guard. He shakes his head, angry with himself and with Gilli, for bringing this up. "I'm not running away," he says calmly. "It's just that I'm not sure where my purpose lies anymore."

The sorcerer snorts, his hesitation melting away. "It couldn't possibly be in the kingdom you spent a dozen years protecting? With the people who love you most in the world?"

Merlin's fists clench involuntarily and he glares at his friend. "Were you always this impertinent? I don't remember you being such a–such a prat ."

As soon as the word slips out of his mouth, the warlock has to swallow a lump in his throat.

Gilli doesn't notice, or if he does, he is tactful enough to pretend otherwise. "Yeah," he replies around a laugh, "I had all these smartass remarks just on the tip of my tongue. I just didn't have the guts to actually say them outloud."

He pauses and steps closer to Merlin, looking deeply into the warlock's eyes.

"You have yourself to blame, really," the sorcerer continues, in an attempt at nonchalance. "I learned much from you in that tournament, Merlin. Not only about magic, but about courage too."

They don't speak for the longest time. The warlock feels his shoulder sag. "I feel useless in Camelot," he admits at last, looking away. "I have all this power, that I'm just now beginning to discover, but there is nothing I can do there to keep the people close to me from dying. My Mum–" He bites his lip and the word dies strangled in his throat. "I left in such a hurry the last time" he manages to murmur. "Kilgharrah – the dragon, not the phoenix – was dying and thought I'd be able to come back–" The warlock shakes his head, a dark smile on his face. "I was so caught up with my existential crisis in my comfortable chambers that I all but forgot my mother aging and laboring in the country." Tears swell in Merlin's eyes and the blinks at them. "She was always there, you know. Something steady and reliable in my chaotic existence. I keep thinking that there must have been a mistake. That if I go to Ealdor I'll find her there, in our old hut, making poultices for the sick village children. I just–I just miss her," he finishes, suddenly exhausted.

Gilli doesn't say anything in response to that and when Merlin turns to face him again, the sorcerer doesn't meet his eyes.

They are nearly in total darkness now, so the warlock summons light to his palm with a thought. The blue glow makes something glint in Gilli's cheeks, and Merlin is startled to realize his friend is crying.

He has just lost his wife, a stern voice resonates in his head. (It sounds a lot like Gaius.) What right do you have of talking about losing people you love?

Before Merlin can open his mouth to apologize, Gilli is sniffing loudly. "I wanted to leave, you know," the sorcerer begins, subdued. "The day before it happened. I told Lynn we should move. 'I can earn my keep somewhere else,' I said, 'It will be rough in the beginning, especially with Galahad still so young, but we will manage.'" He shakes his head dejectedly. "She wanted to wait a few days. Sell the house, sell the things we couldn't carry with us, make some money to help us settle down elsewhere… She said–" Gilli's voice breaks, and though he rubs his eyes frantically the tears don't stop coming. "S-she said she knew I would keep them safe. Lynn always believed I was a better sorcerer than I really was. I always knew I'd disappoint her somehow, but I never imagined–"

Merlin can't take it any longer. He had no idea Gilli was carrying such guilt, that he was suffering so much. After the funeral he had seemed determined, resolute in his decision to avenge his wife's death. The sorcerer had hidden his sadness and regret carefully under barbed humor and grit annoyance. And Merlin had fallen for it.

The warlock reaches forwards and grabs his friend's upper arms, grip tight but not actually hurtful. "It was not your fault, Gilli," he says forcefully. "There was nothing you could have done. You had to leave to gather firewood, without it you wouldn't have lasted the night either way."

The sorcerer doesn't look convinced, his head hangs low and regret is clear in his face, even in the semidarkness.

"Listen to me," the warlock insists, and he waits for his friend to look him in the eye before continuing. "You drove the creature off before it could attack Galahad. Don't you think Lynn would be impossibly grateful for that?" Unbidden, the image of a tearful but happy woman flashes in his mind. Merlin recalls Arthur's mother smiling, saying that she didn't regret giving up her life, albeit unknowingly, so that her son could live. He wills the memory away. "She lives through your son, she lives through you. In the memories you have of her."

Just as he says these words, the thought comes to the warlock that such things can hold truth for him as well.

Merlin envelops Gilli in a tight hug, just as Gaius had done once, almost two years ago (And had it really been so long, since Arthur?) He hopes he manages to convey a fraction of the steadiness and support his mentor had offered him.

After they part, the warlock smiles weakly at his friend's embarrassed face. Gilli's tears have dried, but his eyes remain red and swollen. It looks like he is about to open his mouth to apologize, so Merlin speaks before he gets the chance.

"Lynn was right you know," he says, aiming for playful and lighthearted. "You have always been a decent sorcerer. You almost managed to kill King Uther – using magic right under his nose, no less."

Gilli half smiles, half grimaces at the reminder. "Yeah, but you stopped me." When he speaks, his voice is mostly back to normal.

Merlin grins cheekily. "Don't be disheartened, bigger armies than yours have tried and failed."

That surprises a laugh out of the sorcerer, and his discomfort seems to lessen.

Encouraged, the warlock chuckles. "Besides, next year you can test your courage as well as your magic against the competition again. You know, now that sorcery is actually allowed in the Decennial Tournament."

They laugh and, for a moment, the atmosphere is light.

Wordlessly, they move together in the direction of the inn, done for the night.

Merlin wakes up shivering. For a moment, he has no idea where he is. He listens for Gaius' soft snores, but the room is silent. He sits up in his bed, and it is only when he sees Gilli on the mattress beside him that he remembers he is not in Camelot.

Looking out of the window, the warlock notices it is still dark. It can't have been more than a couple of hours since they went to bed. Usually, he sleeps through the night, only awakening when Gilli throws a pillow at him in the morning. Something must have woken him.

The warlock slips from under the covers, his feet numb with cold. Dread fills the air unnaturally, and Merlin feels foreboding grow in his chest. There is something wrong. Something terribly, awfully wrong.

The door to their room opens with a creak. It echoes loudly in the silent night, but Gilli just turns in his sleep, unperturbed. The warlock considers waking his friend, but decides against it in the end. It might be nothing, after all.

Barefooted and in his nightclothes, Merlin pads along the corridor of the inn's upper floor. The only source of light comes from a dying candle on the wall. Most bedrooms are empty, he knows. With the current state of affairs, the village receives few visitors. The only other inhabitants of the establishment at the moment are Olle and his wife, who reside in the last room down the hallway.

Their door is wide open, so the warlock pads towards it. Each step he takes is harder than the one before. As he approaches the couple's room, his breathing grows shallow, his limbs shake with something besides simple cold and the knot in his throat doesn't abate, if anything it becomes even more pronounced.

"Olle? Moira? Is everything alright?" He asks, voice barely above a whisper.

When he doesn't hear a response, Merlin steps into the room.

And is met with total darkness. He squints, but can't make out any shapes besides his own shadow, surrounded by the flickering light coming from the corridor. There seems to be something blocking the window.

" Léoth ," he mumbles, just to have an excuse to break the deadly silence.

When his glowing orb surges into existence, the warlock almost drops it in his shock.

A black figure hovers next to the occupied bed. It is so tall that its hooded head blocks any light coming from the window. It doesn't seem to notice Merlin has entered the room, for its attention is solely focused on the sleeping couple before it.

Moira slumbers on, a distressed expression on her face, as if she is suffering from a terrible nightmare. Olle, on her side, and closer to the mysterious figure, appears impassive – his breathing shallow and his features pale.

Faint light bursts into the room, and Merlin realizes the creature has lowered his torso over Olle's face. For an insane moment, it seems that it is going to kiss the man.

The macabre scene spurs the warlock into action. He shouts a warning and blasts the figure away from the bed with a flash of his eyes.

Moira blinks awake slowly, confused, but Olle doesn't move.

"It is here! Get away!" Merlin screams at her, when she takes a second too long to move.

The creature is already turning back, attention now on the warlock. It glides forwards, bypassing the bed – where Moira uselessly tries to shake her husband awake – and reaches to Merlin.

The warlock scarcely manages to get the impression of humanoid fingers, before a high-pitched cry sounds in his mind, deafening him. Merlin scrambles back, trying to escape, his orb of light flickers away into nothingness, but he barely notices it.

Blinded in the sudden darkness, the warlock sees in his mind's eye a ghostly shape that distantly resembles a human cranium. Its endless, black eye holes stare menacingly at Merlin, its tongueless mouth opens in an impossibly loud scream. When its wraithlike body comes in contact with his own, the warlock is overcome by burning cold. It freezes his heart and, with each frantic beat of the pulsing organ, the mortal chill spreads through the rest of his flesh.

The thought that he managed to spare Arthur of the same fate is what allows Merlin to withstand the desire to let go of the magic fighting to keep him alive and die already, if only to avoid such suffering.

" F-forbærne ," a stuttering voice calls as if from afar.

The warlock blinks the abrupt memories away. He realizes he is lying on the floor, and someone is shaking him.

Merlin looks up to Gilli's concerned face, he is saying something, but the warlock seems to have gone temporarily deaf. The sorcerer points, and the warlock rises to his elbows to look.

Moira cowers against the farthest wall in the room, a minuscule flame in her hand. She tries shoving it in the creature's face, but it pays her no mind, too engrossed with its victim.

Olle is still lying on his back, eyes closed, mouth hanging open, completely unaware of the monster inches from his face. The creatures seems to pull back its black hood, and swiftly clamps his lower face on the man's mouth.

Merlin almost doesn't hear Moira shrieking in fear, too busy gasping in utter disgust.

The room grows even colder, and an unnatural mist fills the space around the bent figure. The warlock tries to remember a spell, any spell, but his mind has gone blank with shock and absolute dread.

Then, rather calmly, the creature rises. It glides past Moira, causing her flickering flame to wane, before drifting to where the two men stay frozen on the ground. Merlin feels Gilli's nails dig into his shoulder, and it is the flashing pain that snaps him out of his inertia.

" Cume her fyrbryne! " The warlock shouts, throwing a hand forwards. A wall of fire sprouts from the floor, between the demented wraith and the two friends.

The creature recoils, narrowly avoiding the burning flames. With a hiss, it turns its back on them, and fleeds the bedroom.

Merlin starts to feel relief warm his chest, but broken sobs shatter any hope he has that they managed to escape the attack unscathed.

Looking back, the warlock sees Moira desperately clutching to her husband's chest. Her wails break Merlin's heart, but Olle remains unresponsive to his wife's suffering. Though his eyes are now wide open, they are also hollow of feeling or recognition.

* * *

When morning comes, the Drowned Bottle doesn't open, but many people come to pay their respects to Moira. Olle had been a well-known and well-liked man in the village, and it is clear that he will be missed dearly.

Gilli joins the procession that takes the old barkeeper to the pier, from where his body will be taken into open sea and laid to rest as it is the custom of the people. Merlin follows too, but at a distance, not wanting to intrude upon their grief. He feels he is to blame for Olle's death and doesn't deserve to join his mourners.

The warlock had offered to ease the soulless man's passing, but Moira had refused. Tears still staining her face, she declared that it should fall to her.

"I've cared for him for thirty years," she'd said, quiet resilience steadying her voice, "I won't stop now."

After the ceremony is concluded and only the closest to the widow remain, Merlin discreetly leaves, without waiting for Gilli.

The warlock wanders aimlessly through the village, untiring even though he has barely slept. Soon, he finds himself following the same path he had taken the night before, when he had rushed out of the inn in pursuit of the fleeing creature. In the darkness, Merlin had used his magic to guide him, but to little avail. He was led to a dead-end.

Once again, he reaches the end of the trail. The warlock stands alone upon the rocky coastline, gazing out at the waves that lead into the open sea, to where his chase had impossibly disappeared.

It is only a few hours later that Gilli finally finds him. Silently, the sorcerer sits beside Merlin on the sand. They share a brief glance, before turning to watch the clouds gathering on the horizon.

When his friend finally opens his mouth to speak, the warlock braces himself for meaningless reassurances or empty platitudes.

"Have you eaten lunch yet?" Gilli asks in a casual tone.

Merlin whips around to look at the other man. The absurdity of the question startles the warlock out of his gloomy absorption. Of all the things he had expected to hear…

"Do you ever not think with your stomach?" He finds himself demanding around a chuckle.

Something glints in the sorcerer's eyes and he pretends to look thoughtful for a moment.

"Nah, don't think I do."

The two friends giggle together, taking far too much amusement from the comment than it really deserves.

After they quieten down, Gilli sobers a little. "We can't have you passing out from hunger," he says, still smirking. "Especially not tonight, when you face the creature."

Automatically, Merlin makes to shove the sorcerer as he corrects, "when we face the – " He stops short, frowning. "What makes you certain that it will return tonight?"

Gilli shrugs. "Not sure. But I feel like we interrupted its small feast last night," he replies in an offhand manner, only betrayed by the twist in his lips. "I think it will be back for more."

The warlock doesn't even bother with trying to hide the shiver that these words provoque. He nods in reluctant agreement. "You are probably right." Then, after a second, he adds, "we should try to get some sleep too. It won't do for you to give our position away by yawning all the time."

Merlin doesn't try to avoid the push he gets at this.

When Gilli makes to stand up, the warlock halts him with a look. "Wait. There is something else." But though the sorcerer stares at him in indication that he should go on, Merlin discovers himself at a loss for words.

"What?" His friend inquires, a touch of concern in his voice. "What is wrong?"

The warlock shakes his head helplessly, looking away. "There is something awfully familiar about these creatures, Gilli." He manages at last. "Last night, that unnatural cold? That paralyzing dread? I've felt that before."

The sorcerer's eyes are wide. "What do you mean? When?"

Merlin runs his fingers through his hair, tugging a little, the pain helping him to keep grounded.

"Years ago," he says, fighting not to delve too deeply in the memories. "When Morgana opened the veil to the spirit world and released the Doracha." At Gilli's blank look, the warlock elaborates. "The Doracha are the spirits of the dead. When released into our world, they become vicious, murderous creatures. They kill everyone they come in contact with." Well, almost everyone.

The sorcerer frowns, apparently unconvinced. "The thing that attacked Lynn and Olle didn't look like a spirit to me," he points out.

"It didn't look like a living being either," Merlin snaps, irrationally impatient. He sighs, trying to control his temper. "I'm not saying they are the same thing. There are differences. Magic didn't work with the Doracha–"

"Well, it's not like it is working great now," Gilli mutters under his breath.

"–and they actually killed the people they attacked, not only robbed their soul," the warlock continues, pretending he didn't hear.

"I honestly can't say if that is better or infinitely worse," the sorcerer mumbles again.

Merlin sighs again. "Me neither."

They contemplate the question for a moment.

"So," Gilli finally says, standing up and offering a hand for the warlock to do the same, "how did you get rid of the Dorocha things?"

Merlin rises, turning his back to the sea. "I didn't," he tells simply. "A friend of mine sacrificed himself to heal the veil, and the Dorocha were returned to the spirit world."

Gilli blanches, but tries to shrug it off. "I feel really optimistic now, thanks."

* * *

The young men try to move out of the inn and find somewhere else to stay, but Moira insists that they remain. She even fixes something up for the three of them to eat for lunch.

The old woman flutters about the establishment, cleaning windows that don't need to be cleaned and sweeping floors that are already sleek with water and too much soap.

Gilli tries to make her stop once, but Merlin gives him a meaningful look and he gives up.

"Sometimes it helps to keep busy," the warlock offers quietly as they retire to their bedroom to catch a few hours of rest before nightfall.

The sorcerer hums noncommittally.

After what feels like hours of tossing and turning, the warlock falls into a fitful slumber, full of shadows and whispers and the uneasiness that accompanies the sensation of being watched by something that wishes you ill.

He wakes after sunset, feeling more tired than he had been before going to bed.

The pair doesn't meet Moira on their way out, and assume she must have finally crashed after almost 36 hours without sleep.

They set out to the darkening streets. As more stars appear in the surprisingly clear night sky, less people can be seen outside, until it seems that Merlin and Gilli are the only ones in an abandoned village.

They walk silently side by side, guided by a soft glowing orb the warlock had conjured after it had become impossible to see otherwise. The only sounds are the distant waves of the sea and the squeak of their wet boots. Gilli fiddles with his ring anxiously, turning it around and around in his finger.

"What is the plan again?" He asks, shooting a nervous glance at Merlin, almost as if he is second guessing his decision to come along in this quest.

The pair jumps when they hear a noise coming from behind them. Gilli yelps and Merlin has a spell ready at the tip of his tongue when they turn to face–

A rat.

They sigh in relief, before the warlock clears his throat awkwardly. "We find the creature," he answers as if nothing had happened. "Trap it. Try to find out its weaknesses. Kill it if we can."

Gilli hums in agreement. "And if we can't?"

But Merlin is no longer listening.

They have reached the pier, and look out into the open sea. Waves crash against anchored boats, and the air smells of salt and fish. A heavy mist appears to be growing. Thicker and quicker than it would be natural.

"There is one coming," gasps Gilli unnecessarily, already raising his shaking palms in a defensive position.

A dark, tall figure glides over the waves of the ocean, as if born from the mist itself. It is humanoid, though clearly inhuman. And while it possesses a solid body, it cannot be denied that the creature resembles the Dorocha spirits, if only in the revolting way their magic brushes against Merlin's, making him recoil in disgust.

The warlock tries to reach for some sort of conscience inside the abomination. He finds something faint, that knows only of hunger and despair. He tries to reach for the body, and is met with a sense of a rotten substance that might have once been human flesh. Against his better judgment, he reaches purposefully with his magic, and feels the numbing cold he felt when under the attack of the Dorocha, years before. This is corruption in its purest sense, he thinks. This is spirit, body and magic torn inside out, irreversibly disfigured, stripped of their true nature, disgustingly soiled beyond any hope of redemption.

As the wight approaches, Merlin feels the already chilly night become even colder. He doesn't know if he can actually smell the putrefaction or if his senses are playing tricks on him, for suddenly it is as if he is also hearing strange sounds coming from the mist. They are almost like voices, voices he hasn't heard in a long time.

The warlock hears something heavy drop by his side, snapping him out of the trance-like state in which he had trapped himself. He looks at his right to find Gilli on his knees, clutching at his head, the wraith a few feet away from them, now in dry land.

"No!" Merlin shouts, raising his palms before the creature. " Ástríce! " His eyes shine bright gold, and the rotten figure is thrown aside.

"Are you alright?" the warlock asks, while helping Gilli scramble to his feet. "Are you hurt?"

Trembling, the other shakes his head in denial, but doesn't reply otherwise. "Can you trap it?" He asks instead.

"We are about to discover," Merlin mutters, before stepping in front of Gilli.

The creature has recovered fast, and is gliding towards them once more. Up close, the warlock can see the wight is taller than any man, towering over them like they were children. It wears dark rags which cover its decaying corpse and hide its face completely from view. As the wraith raises its hands, as if to grab Merlin, he notices its skin is grey and scabbed.

" Flíeh on nu moras, " the warlock enchants, hoping the spell will work better than it did against the Dorocha.

It does. Sort of.

The demented creature flinches away as if burned, but seems to overcome the effects of the magic rather quickly. It doesn't come any closer, choosing instead to circle them menacingly.

Merlin notices how it appears to give a wider berth to his orb of light, still fluctuating by their side, illuminating the otherwise dark night. It gives him an idea.

"Do you know how to summon light?" The warlock asks, not daring to take his eyes from the wraith.

"Y-yeah," Gilli replies. "Why?"

"Do it on my signal!" Merlin shouts, preparing himself. "Now!"

" Léoht! " They say in unison, eyes flashing.

Bright sunlight shines from their palms, and the creature recoils, not in pain or fear, more like… blindsided. Soon, it turns again in their direction, angrier than before.

"It's not working, Merlin!" Gilli says, voice anxious.

"Keep holding the spell," the warlock replies. "I'll try something."

He closes his eyes, concentrating, before muttering " weorc untoworpenlic. " With that, he calls forth golden chains from deep within the ground. They rise above the wight, tying themselves around its body viciously, making the creature screech horribly.

Trapped between chains and light, it appears the wraith has been defeated.

"We did it!" Cheers Gilli. "Now we only have to–"

But the sorcerer doesn't manage to finish his sentence, for the air grows even colder than before, the mist thicker – so dense it's difficult to see. Merlin squints and turns around, trying to find what is causing this effect, already preparing for the worst.

The worst is worse than he expected.

From the open sea, come dozens – maybe even hundreds – of the wights. They glide eerily over harsh waves, faster than any boat or animal. Merlin can feel their unnatural magic, and he knows they stand absolutely no chance.

"Run, Gilli!" The warlock orders, shoving his friend away. "I'll slow them down."

The other man stares at him as if he's gone mad. "You can't fight them on your own!" He retorts, standing his ground.

"There is nothing you can do here," Merlin insists. "Go! Warn the people!"

Gilli doesn't move an inch. "There is no place for them to run or hide. Not from this many! If we don't stop the creatures now, there is no hope at all for the village."

The warlock wants to argue, but there is no time, the wraiths are upon them, and even the one they had managed to capture has broken free in their distraction.

Pressed down from all sides, completely surrounded, Merlin and Gilli share a look.

As one, they start shooting spell after spell at the creatures. Balls of fire, gusts of wind, an avalanche of rocks. Nothing seems to work. Everything the sorcerers throw at them is easily deflected. Soon, Gilli is panting besides Merlin, completely depleted of magic.

"I-I c-can't–" He gasps, falling to his knees.

The wraiths round up on him. To the warlock's horror, they seem to be feeding on Gilli, not on his body, but on his-his magic.

"Oh Lynn! I'm so sorry," he mumbles nonsensically from the ground, gazing at something only he can see.

Desperately, Merlin screams, releasing a powerful burst of magic, which throws the creatures a few feet away. The effect is only temporary and a moment later they are onto the warlock, fighting savagely to get at him.

Though the warlock's magic is great, he is not infallible, and in a split-second of distraction, one of the demented wights manages to get close to him. The next moment, Merlin blasts it away, but the damage has been done.

The young man can feel his energy and magic being drained away. Cold spreads through his limbs and reaches for his heart. He is suddenly overcome by the numbing feeling of hopelessness. His attacks lower in strength, and he doesn't seem to be able to keep up his defenses.

Merlin falls to the ground besides Gilli. On all fours, the warlock reaches for the core of his magic, about to make his last attempt, when he hears it. Those voices again. He tries to ignore them, he shakes his head. Gilli is there, he has to help his friend. The villagers are counting on him. He can't give up.

But then–

Merlin recognizes it. It's his mother's voice coming from the mist. He lets go of the magic, in favor of focusing on it, straining to hear–

Everything turns black.

I know. His mother's quiet acceptance, the pride he could see in her sad eyes. That was the exact same thing your father told me before he left, too . He should have visited. He could have saved her if only he had visited. She wouldn't have died. He wouldn't be alone–

Merlin–Merlin, I'm scared . Will's usually so lively, so confident voice calling Merlin's name in broken gasps, over and over again. It had been his fault his best friend had died. If he wasn't such a coward–

One day, Merlin, I will repay you. I promise. Freya's soft whispers, eyes brimming with gratitude, a gratitude he did not feel he deserved. He could not save her, he could not protect her–

You are my son. I've seen enough in you to know you will make me proud. His father's assured tone, the unwavering confidence in his lined expression. If only Merlin hadn't brought death to his doorstep–

Merlin... Thank you . Lancelot's relieved, almost glad whisper. Soft, brown eyes gazing up at him. Another gratitude he did not merit. He had failed the knight twice, first in allowing his friend to take his place at the Isle of the Blessed, and then allowing Morgana to profane is body so horridly–

It has been a privilege to know you, Emrys . Finna's last words to him. The resolution shining in her aged eyes. She believed in him, she – like so many others – sacrificed herself for him. And he wasn't worth it–

Magic or no magic, you are our friend, and nothing can change that . Merlin can clearly imagine Gwaine saying, a playful glint in his eyes. Oh, how he wishes he had heard such words in person! If he had confided in his friend, maybe he wouldn't have been so cruelly killed–

Morgana dying in his arms, desperately gasping, incredulous eyes staring back at him, uncomprehending. Merlin cannot tell if this was after he poisoned her, or after he drove Excalibur through her chest. Both events appear inseparable in his grief-stricken mind–

I want to say something I've never said to you before... Thank you. Arthur's hoarse voice, gaze completely focused on him, full of gratitude and forgiveness and understanding and… love. Arthur's eyes were impossibly blue that day. Bright and clear and so, so vivid. Merlin has never seen anyone with eyes like Arthur's. Able to express a thousand emotions with a frown, or the arch of an unimpressed eyebrow, or the twinkling of an otherwise repressed smile. Looking into them felt as familiar as coming home. And Merlin will never again have the chance to look into such eyes, for he failed, and his friend, his king, his everything is dead–

Except.

Except.

Merlin has seen eyes just as blue, just as bright, just as vivid. He has. Somewhere else. Not–not Arthur's. Someone equally important. Where? Who?

He remembers–He remembers blabbering, and tiny little fists pulling at his neckerchief, and a small, warm, fragile body cradled against his chest–

And Ygraine's round blue eyes. Exactly the same shade as Arthur's.

Merlin remembers how the child smiles happily at him, fascinated by his magic, comforted by his presence. He remembers telling her stories, and bouncing her on his hip around the castle. He remembers giving her to Gwen to be fed–

Gwen. Her steady presence, her unconditional love and acceptance. The first friend he ever made in Camelot, so many years ago. The first person he had a pleasant conversation with, really. Well, second if you considered Gaius–

Gaius. His mentor, his confident, his father. The only person who had ever gotten close to truly understanding him. With his patience, his unwavering support, his wisdom. Merlin wouldn't have survived the years hiding and living in shadows if it hadn't been for Gaius.

Ygraine. Gwen. Gaius.

He has not failed them yet.

Leon. Percival. Alice. Gilli. Idina.

They are still counting on him.

Finna. Alator. All the magical people who had suffered, who had risked everything.

Their sacrifice had not been in vain.

His mother. His father. Will. Freya. Lancelot. Elyan. Gwaine. Arthur.

Merlin had loved them dearly. He still does. They live on through him, they always will. All the happy memories they made together – those will never fade, as long as he allows himself never to forget.

With a burst of power, the warlock sends a shapeless wave of white light in all directions around him, driving the hideous wraiths away. The light is so blindingly bright, Merlin can barely keep his eyes open.

Slowly, just as it had come, the mist recedes back to the sea. And the warlock feels like he can breathe again.

He tries to stand up, but his arms and legs are too weak and cannot support his weight. Gracelessly, he falls forwards to the ground.

He closes his eyes.

Distantly, as if in a dream, Merlin can hear the song of a phoenix.

* * *

 **Next chapter:**  
After almost losing his soul to the wraiths, Merlin finds guidance with his most devote allies.


	6. Interlude in Mercia

**Chapter summary:** Merlin wakes up in unexpected company. With his allies' help, the warlock must prepare himself to the next encounter with the wraiths. Unfortunately for all involved, time is not on their side.

* * *

 **Chapter 6: Interlude in Mercia**

* * *

When he regains consciousness, the first thing Merlin notices is how dry and warm he feels. After spending the past days soaked to the bone, the sensation is so refreshing that the warlock takes his time in marveling at it.

Then, he picks up on the soft buzzing of magic coming from nearby. Uncomprehending, Merlin opens his eyes, only to be met with the ceiling of a cave. Torches line up against the walls, creating perpetually moving shadows, but also providing welcomed heat.

Raising himself onto his elbows, he realises he is lying on a makeshift cot, draped in thick furs. There is a fire a few meters away, around which a group of people sit in silence.

Casting his eyes around for any sign of who these people might be, Merlin takes in the trinkets hanging from the ceiling. They bear the symbols of the Old Religion, and the warlock recognizes the inconspicuous objects as the offerings and charms commonly made by the Druids.

As he moves to a sitting position, Merlin catches sight of Gilli lying a few feet from him, apparently fast asleep. Upon seeing his friend's pale face, the warlock gasps loudly, suddenly remembering their disastrous encounter with the wraiths.

"I see that you are awake, Emrys," a soothing voice echoes in the cave.

Turning around, he identifies Iseldir's familiar face looking calmy back at him.

"Iseldir," Merlin nods at the Druid chieftain. "What happened? How long have I slept?" He asks, getting up onto unsteady feet and approaching the fire.

The Druids quickly rise on his wake, inclining their heads respectfully at him. There are only five of them, including Iseldir. Merlin doesn't remember meeting them before – though he might have, for the infrequent dealings he'd had with the Druids in the past didn't offer much of a chance to properly meet anyone.

The Druid leader gestures for him to sit with them next to the fire. The following moment a bowl of stew is placed in his hands. Realizing he is famished, Merlin wolfs down his food.

"It is early morning. You've been resting through the night," Iseldir replies. "As for what happened, we were hoping you could tell us that," his eyes are fixed unnervingly at the warlock. "Bree and Egon," he indicates the teenage girl and the young boy sitting beside her, both of which also stare transfixed at Merlin, "found you and your companion late last night, just outside our settlement."

The dirty-blond boy nods enthusiastically. "We felt powerful magic and went to investigate," he interrupts eagerly. "When we found your bodies they were so cold we thought–"

But Merlin doesn't discover what the child had thought, for abruptly Egon cuts himself off and looks abashedly at the old woman sitting on his other side. She doesn't move her lips at all, but the warlock is familiar enough with the Druids to know she has probably soundlessly scolded the boy for talking out of turn.

"Nessa and Maddox brought you here and sent for me," Iseldir continues unperturbed. Merlin sends a grateful look to the old woman and the somber man. "There wasn't much we could do, for your bodies were hale. It was your spirits which were at peril."

"How is Gilli now?" The warlock asks, glancing worriedly at his still form. "Is he going to recover?"

Iseldir gives him a small smile. "He should wake within a few hours, bearing no lasting effects."

"In all my years as a healer," says Nessa, blinking owlish at Merlin, "I had never seen such a thing before. Your very souls seemed to have been breached." The old Druid shudders, and the warlock grips his empty bowl so tightly his knuckles turn white. "What sort of trials have you undergone?"

Merlin lets his eyes rest on the logs burning in front of him. He tries not to remember the cold dread, the haunting voices, the feeling of utter powerlessness and hopelessness. He tries to focus on the warmth coming from the flames, the soft buzzing of magic coming from his companions, the savory taste of the stew lingering on his lips.

If Merlin thought himself all-powerful and invincible, he had been sorely mistaken. Foolishly, he started to believe that being called Emrys in old tales and prophecies suggested he could not be hurt, could not be defeated. He dismissed the obvious dangers of his quest, believing that not being able to die meant there was nothing he had to fear.

He allowed himself to forget that there were fates worse than death.

Moreover, Merlin allowed himself to forget that others did not have the luxury of his powers. He grew overconfident in his abilities, and his stupidity had almost cost his soul – even worse, it had almost cost Gilli's soul. If it hadn't been for that lucky bit of instinctual magic at the very last moment–

 _Peace, Emrys,_ a reassuring voice sounds in his mind. The warlock looks up and meets the eyes of the quiet Druid girl. _All is well_.

It is only as Bree apprehensively glances down, that Merlin realizes that in his distress he has made the flames grow threateningly before them.

"Sorry," he mutters, running a hand through his hair and taking a deep breath.

Without meeting anyone's eyes, he recounts his encounter with the soul-sucking creatures. When Merlin finishes, there is horror etched to each Druid's face. Silent tears run down little Egon's cheeks, and Nessa is frantically mumbling a prayer under her breath.

"How horrible it must be," Bree whispers, hugging the boy by her side, "to lose your soul in such a way and become wraith yourself – cursed to mindless prey on those you once knew and loved."

There are no words of comfort that can be said to that.

"The very existence of these creatures," says Iseldir, after a long moment of silence, "represents a grave imbalance to the world. Should they be allowed to continue undeterred, I fear…" The white-haired man trails off, deep in thought.

"What? What will happen?" Demands Merlin anxiously.

The Druid chieftain shakes his head dejectedly. "It is impossible to say. Crops may rot, animals inexplicably die, the seasons might mutate, the weather change."

The weather change. Merlin blanches at the realization. That unnatural, oppressing storm which seemed to follow them relentlessly. They had wondered if there wasn't more to it than ill luck.

"It might have already started," the warlock says bleakly, turning the attention back to him. "How do we stop the creatures? How do we fight something that is hardly affected by even the strongest forms of magic?" There is a hint of panic in his voice.

The Druids look at each other, and Merlin can't tell if they are communicating telepathically or simply at a loss for words.

At that precise moment, the sound of coughing makes them turn towards Gilli, who is sitting up with some difficulty.

Nessa immediately rises for her seat and, with a glance, calls for the two youngsters to join her by the sorcerer's bedside. Merlin watches as they tend to Gilli, who appears somewhat disoriented, if unhurt. The warlock smiles to himself as his friend reaches eagerly for his own bowl of stew and splashes some drops on his shirt, making Egon giggle.

 _There is a spell_ , a low voice rumbles in his mind, making Merlin turn to the Druid who hadn't spoken yet. Maddox is cloaked in shadows almost as dark as his skin, but it is possible to make out his braided, coarse hair, which falls over and beyond his broad shoulders in black-and-white strands. His expression is grave, and it is impossible to guess at his age, but despite the silver in his hair he does not appear old. _It is ancient_ , he continues, _some legends say it was the first spell ever created, by the very first humans with the gift of magic. It might be powerful enough to stand these wraiths._

Hope swells in Merlin's heart.

"What kind of spell is it?" He asks, leaning forwards.

Maddox's eyes flutter to Iseldir and both Druids stare at each other.

"It is a spell meant to protect the caster," the Druid leader says finally, still not looking in Merlin's direction. "The true nature of this magic remains largely unknown, but the effect of the spell is to produce a shield of sorts. The strongest shield imaginable – not a physical barrier, mind you, – but one of magic and soul."

The warlock frowns. "A protection made of magic and _soul_?" He inquires, not managing to keep the doubt from his tone.

Iseldir nods, at last turning away from his kin. It is Maddox who answers, though.

 _It is more than a mere shield or barrier_ , his eyes flash with intensity, _it is an outward manifestation of a person's true self. It builds upon all that rests hidden and obscured in our minds and in our hearts. It reveals who we are – no masks, no pretenses._

Uncomfortably, Merlin shifts in his seat, but he forces his eyes not to lower or turn away.

"How would that help me defeat the wraith-like creatures?" He challenges, looking from one Druid to the other. "Wouldn't exposing myself like that make me even more vulnerable to an assault?"

Maddox shakes his head patiently, as if dealing with a slow pupil.

"The spell does not actually expose your soul," Iseldir explains, "it merely reflects it, so that in case you are attacked, your opponent will not be able to reach you truly, only the projection."

Merlin nods along, suddenly a lot keener. "The creatures won't be able to feed on me. I won't be affected."

 _Precisely_ , confirms Maddox.

"But beware, Emrys," cautions Iseldir, "we do not know if this magic will be enough to permanently destroy the wraiths. It might simply drive them away."

But the warlock is not discouraged. "I can worry about that later," he insists, "first I have to be able to approach them without having my soul sucked out of me."

His casual tone makes Maddox frown slightly, but the other Druid smiles minutely.

"Very well," the chieftain declares, "we will teach you the spell."

Merlin inclines his head in acknowledgement and thanks.

 _It will not be easy, Emrys,_ warns the somber Druid, _this might as well be the most difficult magic you will ever learn. Many accomplished high-priestesses and high-priests never managed to fully wield this power._

Grimly, Merlin nods. "I understand."

 _No you don't_ , Maddox cuts rather forcefully, mouth twisting. _If you are to become proficient in this spell, you must not only know how to master your magic, but you will need to master your heart as well._ His eyes burn into Merlin's. _Can you face the secrets buried deep within you? Will you be able to embrace all that you are, conquests and failures alike? Are you capable of admitting to your flaws along with virtues?_ The Druid pauses, and when he continues, his words roll deliberately, as if to make sure the warlock won't miss a single one. _When your true self is revealed, you might not like what you see. Are you prepared to suffer that possibility?_

Now, Merlin takes his time to consider the Druid's words carefully. When he finally opens his mouth to speak, his shoulders feel heavy with his decision, but he keeps his back straight and stares Maddox in the eyes unblinkingly.

"For most of my life I've hidden who I was," the warlock tells them, not like an admittance or something he should be ashamed of, simply something that is. "I lived in shadows, I inhabited them. It is second nature for me to wear disguises and masks. I cover my actions and cloak my intentions. I bury my true feelings and shield myself with tricks." Merlin laughs humorlessly. "And to think that for years I hid my magic, only to discover in the end that I'm magic itself."

He meets Iseldir's gaze and finds understanding there. "I got so used to hiding from others, I didn't realize I was also hiding from myself." The warlock pauses and lets his eyes wander to where Gilli and the other Druids sit, in a merry discussion, before turning back, resolve strengthening his voice.

"I'm not saying it is going to be easy. I understand that it will. But I'm prepared to face this challenge, I'm prepared to face myself, at last." He grins unexpectedly at them. "If you are prepared to teach me, that is."

Iseldir inclines his head. "It will be an honor, Emrys."

Maddox, for the first time, smiles at Merlin.

* * *

"So, after you learn this secret, wicked Druid magic," Gilli is half whispering to him later that day, as the pair collects firewood in the forest by the cave. "Do you think you will be allowed to teach me?"

Merlin snorts despite himself, balancing a dozen logs in his arms. "You know you can ask Iseldir and Maddox to teach you yourself, right?"

The sorcerer shrugs, almost dropping the wood he is carrying. "Iseldir maybe, but the other guy is too intimidating. The way he stares at you and never says anything."

The warlock chuckles softly. "He is not so bad," he defends.

Gilli grimaces in response. "That is because you can do the mind-speech thing so you actually know what his intense glares stand for."

At that, Merlin has to concede the point.

"Still no sign of Kilgharrah?" Gilli asks, changing the subject.

All traces of amusement vanish from the warlock's face. "It is as I told you," he replies, "I think I heard him singing just before I passed out back in the village. There is no way I was able to teleport ourselves from Deira all the way here to Mercia. He must have been there, it's the only explanation."

The other man remains unconvinced. "I don't know, Merlin," he says. "You weren't supposed to be able to repel the wraiths either, but here we are, not-soulless. And besides," Gilli adds, as his friend opens his mouth to argue, "why would your – er – friend come back to help us only to disappear again? It makes no sense."

Merlin is saved from having to answer when a soprano voice sounds in his head.

 _Supper is ready, Emrys!_ Egon says, sending an image of a steaming pot over the fire.

The warlock smiles to himself at the boy's apparently perpetual cheerfulness. _Coming_ , he replies.

"Let's head back," Merlin says out loud for Gilli's benefit. "They are waiting for us to start eating."

When they arrive, the two sorcerers stop short at what they see.

"...is it me," Gilli mumbles, "or have the Druids somehow multiplied in the time we were gone?"

Swallowing dry, Merlin shakes his head. "It isn't you."

At least two dozen Druids sit around a larger fire in the center of the cave. Iseldir, Maddox, Nessa, Bree and Egon are mixed in the crowd, but there also are men, women and children who had not been there before. They talk quietly but merrily amongst each other.

Until they catch sight of Merlin, that is.

When the warlock approaches, one by one, all Druids fall silent.

 _Emrys_. The newcomers greet in his mind simultaneously. Together, they stand up and incline their heads in a sign of respect.

"Uh. Hello," Merlin stutters, before busying himself with feeding the fire with the wood they had collected.

Under the pretence of adjusting a log, Gilli lowers himself by the warlock's side. "They _worship_ you," he says, half teasing, half impressed.

Merlin pretends not to hear him and goes to find himself a seat and a bowl of soup.

Slowly, the Druids resume their places and conversations.

 _What are all these people doing here?_ He sends to Iseldir, who sits opposite him, apparently in deep discussion with an elderly woman. _I thought you said your band was traveling in smaller groups._

The Druid chieftain does not pause in his conversation as he replies. _We are, but when the news of your arrival spread, most chose to come express their gratitude to you,_ Iseldir explains, _for helping return magic to the land._

Merlin frowns. _I played but a small part._

The Druid does not respond and neither does he meet the warlock's eyes.

On the other hand, the rest of the group – especially the youths – cannot seem to stop stealing glances at Merlin between mouthfuls of soup. Gilli does not miss this, and giggles at the warlock from his place besides Bree and Egon.

Long after all the bowls have been emptied, their attention is finally diverted from the warlock.

Merlin notices the atmosphere around the fire change. Without a warning, it goes from giddy relaxation to solemn anticipation. Everyone falls silent, and all eyes turn to rest upon the figure of the elderly Druid who had been talking to Iseldir. Sorcha, Merlin suddenly discovers is her name, as the thought is swiftly planted by the chieftain.

She wears the traditional Druid robes. Her face is deeply lined, her hair silver-white and her hands tremble on her lap. The woman appears so frail, Merlin fears an unexpected gust of wind might knock her down.

Yet, when she speaks, her voice resonates steadily throughout the cave.

"For thirty years," Sorcha begins, "those with magic were persecuted, shunned and killed. Our sacred dwellings were violated, our traditions lost. We were driven from our homes, labeled criminals and forced to live at the margins of society. We all lost people who were dear to us," the Druid pauses gravely. "But we did not lose hope," she continues, "for even when all seemed lost, our seers and prophets spoke of an individual who would rise from the ashes of the world as we knew it, to help build a new, better one. They spoke of Emrys, the most powerful sorcerer to ever live, destined to possess powers never before wielded by any living creature, destined to bring back the Old Religion and restore balance to the land." Her aged eyes wander through the group, though they linger for a moment longer on Merlin. "The prophecies were proven truthful. Now we are accepted once again. And although the years and the souls we've lost will never be returned to us, we have the chance to move forwards in this new age of peace and prosperity. We wish to thank you, Emrys," she says, bowing to him.

The two dozens of Druids mimic the elderly woman, and Merlin feels their minds and magic brush against his. The devotion and gratitude he receives both warm and humble him. Their faith contrasts starkly with the despair he feels for having failed so many people, in so many different ways.

"You were the ones who – against all adversity – held strong to your beliefs," Merlin says, willing his voice not to break. "I have never met such a resilient people such as yours. And I'm honored by your faith in me, as undeserved as it is. There is still much to be done to bring balance to the world," he adds forebodingly, "but I hope to contribute in any way I can."

The old Druid holds his gaze unblinking. "True and permanent balance is never achieved," she tells him, "the scales of the world, of life and death, are always tipping from one side to the other. It is our responsibility as followers of the Old Religion and the Triple Goddess to correct unnatural imbalances."

With some difficulty, Sorcha rises to her feet, leaning on a wooden staff she uses to help support herself. Slowly, the Druid marches towards Merlin.

"However," she says as she stops in front of him, "none of us have mastered the powers over life and death – the two ultimate extremes of the continuum that makes the balance – as you have, Emrys."

At that, she reaches inside her robes, bringing forth an object Merlin had never thought to see again.

"Therefore," the Sorcha continues, "we choose to place the most powerful magical artifact known to humankind under your care. Guard it well. Use it wisely." And with such words, she passes the Cup of Life to his hands.

Merlin is at a loss for words.

"I-I can't possibly–" He stammers. "The Cup is safer in your care," the warlock insists.

 _Were you not sincere when you enlisted to help preserve the balance?_ Maddox's thoughts are sudden and sharp against his.

Merlin turns quickly to face the somber Druid.

 _Of course I was_. He replies sternly. _But that does not mean–_

 _The Cup of Life is the physical manifestation of the equilibrium between the land of the living and the world of the dead,_ Maddox forges on. _As the master of life and death, its powers are your responsibility – and your burden._

Stoically, Merlin gets to his feet. He meets the eyes of the Druids around him. Gilli nods once at him, expression tense and resolute. Then, the warlock focuses on the elderly woman still standing before him. He bows his head at her.

"I accept this charge," Merlin says gravely, "and I swear never to misuse it."

* * *

After his pronouncement, the tone of the evening changes again. The Druids hurdle closer together around the fire, the smaller children quieten down by their guardians' sides, and the elders of the group begin the story-telling.

As Iseldir embarks in a tale about the first Druid ever able to use magic, in a practiced, well-rehearsed rhythm, Merlin wonders if the chieftain is subtly projecting his thoughts along with his voice, for the warlock feels it is incredibly easy to lose himself in the mystical, ancient world built with each word.

They take turns in trading stories. Some are somber and bleak – like those which talk about the Purge –, while others are hopeful and inspirational – like the ones involving great heroes and wise prophets. (And if Merlin flushed with embarrassment when Nessa reconted the tale of Emrys and the Once and Future King, well, it was very warm around the fire!). But the tales Merlin likes the best are lighthearted and unassuming, about common people and the small, underappreciated miracles of everyday life.

Everyone around the circle is invited to share a story or an anecdote. Some people do choose famous, well-established myths, but others – especially the children – prefer to tell about curious, interesting, or otherwise meaningful things they witnessed or learned.

When it is Egon's turn to speak, he recounts how in the previous evening his usually boring and uneventful gathering of firewood produced the most unexpected results, in the form of two strange sorcerers appearing out of nowhere with a powerful burst of magic.

Gilli, to Merlin's surprise, boldly volunteers a tale about his late wife. He tells the group in a nostalgic tone about the first time he performed magic in front of Lynn, in the early days of their acquaintance. Apparently, they had been in a fishing boat together, when a storm hit and the boat sank. Gilli used his powers to get them safely to shore. The sorcerer reminisces about how he had been afraid of Lynn's reaction, and about his surprise when she took a step forward, still soaking in sea water, and kissed him right on the lips.

Bree quietly tells them about what little she remembers of her parents – from what Merlin could tell, she had been given away to the Druids at a very tender age, when she first began to manifest signs of magical abilities. The girl finishes her tale by manifesting her hope that now that magic is accepted in one of the most influential kingdoms in the land, no parents will feel the need to give away their children to avoid persecution.

Not all Druids choose to speak.

Maddox, for example, simply raises his hands towards the fire, flashing his eyes in a silent incantation. At first, Merlin thinks his spell hasn't worked, for nothing seems to be happening. Then, the warlock notices the most peculiar thing. Instead of the smell of burning wood and scented candles that he had been breathing all-night long, now he smells a different scent. He closes his eyes to try to identify it.

It's – impossibly – a mixture of boot polisher, chainmail, leather and… something warm and familiar and absolutely lovely.

Merlin opens his eyes to find all around him bearing watering eyes and wistful smiles, and the warlock is certain they can't possibly be smelling the same thing as him.

Looking over at Maddox, Merlin notices the Druid's usual grave expression has softened a little. The older man seems to realize he's being stared at, for he opens his eyes and turns to the warlock.

Merlin nods to him once, in a sign of both appreciation and understanding. Though he did not utter a single word, Maddox spoke of longing, sorrow and wistfulness with more eloquence than the finest of poets.

They go on like that for what feels like hours, carried by the lull of both tale and magic. Children fall asleep in their guardian's arms, and even some of the adults yaw lazily. Merlin himself feels rather sleepy and content, and he allows his attention to drift.

Soon, all eyes are turned towards him, and the warlock realizes he must be the only one who hasn't shared either a story or a bit of magic.

As he tries to think of something, Merlin lets his eyes wander through the cave. He notices that, strangely enough, the flames of the candles and torches seem to be growing weaker and weaker against the shadows. A gust of wind must be entering their dwelling, for it suddenly feels colder than it had a moment before. Slowly, the glowing feeling of safety and connection melts away, to be replaced by paralyzing dread.

"They are here." The words escape Merlin before he even realizes he is going to say them.

Apparently, the warlock is not the only one who noticed something is amiss, for Iseldir and the other elders are promptly getting to their feet.

"What?" Gilli and a few others ask, looking around in confusion.

"We must leave," Iseldir says calmly but firmly. "It's not safe here anymore."

 _Too late_. Maddox's thoughts cut soberly through theirs.

Casting his gaze towards the entrance, Merlin realizes the Druid is right. He can already see the bleak, putred figures of the wraiths approaching the cavern. It's too dark to count, but the warlock fears there might be just as many creatures as he and Gilli faced back in Wellera.

A child screams. Merlin doesn't turn to look, but he thinks it's the five-year-old who had been sleeping in her mother's lap, just besides the warlock. There is confused panic after that, with adults shielding the youths, people grabbing for torches, and light spells being frantically cast.

"You must summon the brightest light you can!" Merlin orders, doing exactly that himself, as they are all backed against the farthest wall of the cave by the unrelenting wights.

More than a dozen bulbs of brightness appear, hovering before the group. The wraiths stop their advance, but remain surrounding the humans from all sides.

"Light is not enough," Iseldir says, stepping forwards from the group.

"All of those who can," adds Sorcha, "enchant with us."

And at that, a few of the older Druids close their eyes and begin muttering in unison. Merlin cannot understand their words, but soon the effects of whatever magic they are doing can be seen.

From each Druid, a wisp of pure white light emerges. The light is like nothing else Merlin has ever seen or felt before, for it is not only blindingly bright – overshadowing completely the timid globes of light the warlock and the others had spelled forth – it also brings with it the wonderful feeling of security and euphoria. The magical tendrils fly towards the creatures, pushing them away. People cry out in relief and joy.

Merlin, startled, realizes the bright magic is not made up solely of innate shapeless things, on the contrary, a few of them rather resemble… sentient living beings.

From the thread of magic connected to Iseldir rises a silver falcon, its huge wings flap soundlessly over the wraiths, making them recoil. The warlock has the fleeting impression it might be a merlin.

From Sorcha's emerges a completely different creature. A tiny insect zooms besides the falcon, contrastingly smaller, but equally efficient in keeping the wights at bay. Squinting, Merlin realizes the insect is actually a ladybug.

The warlock turns his head to his other side and sees that Maddox is frowning in concentration. Soon enough, silver brightness bursts from him as well, this time in the form of a fierce hedgehog, which strides forwards to join the others.

The other Druids maintain the spell too, however their wisps of light remain blurred and amorphic.

"We won't be able to keep this up for long," warns Iseldir, the strain already audible in his voice.

 _They are too many, they are too strong_ , Maddox says in their minds.

And indeed, little by little, minute by minute, the strength of their magic seems to wane and dwindle. The cold, which had abated, returns in even greater intensity. The children begin to sob anew, and the adults cower instinctively away from the wraiths.

As the formless wisps of brightness disappear, leaving only the three silver animals, Merlin takes a step closer to Iseldir.

"Teach me the incantation!" He asks urgently. "I can help!"

The Druid barely glances at him, so intent on holding the magic protecting them.

"It is not merely a question of saying the words," the chieftain replies between labored breaths. "To learn this spell you must–"

"Learn to know and accept my heart as well as my magic," Merlin interrupts impatiently. "So you told me, but we don't have time for that now!"

On Iseldir's other side, Sorcha gasps and falls to her knees. Her silver ladybug vanishes into thin air and the dark creatures on their right press in.

"How did they find us here, anyway?" Gilli shouts unexpectedly, a bit of hysteria creeping in his voice. "We are miles away from Wellera!" The sorcerer is trying to pull the old Druid back to her feet.

Merlin wonders at that too, but before he has a chance to open his mouth to say that they can worry about that later, sharp words echo in his thoughts.

 _It is you!_ Maddox accuses unforgivingly. _These abominations followed you here_.

The warlock feels his throat close at the possibility that he is the reason so many innocents are in danger. "What? But–how?"

But the Druid doesn't send anything back in response, for he, too, is dropping to the ground, letting his hedgehog dissolve. Now, from both left and right the wraiths close in. Those on the edges of the group can already feel the effects of the creatures more intensely – many are fainting, as the wights seem to take turns in sucking on them. Screams and cries for help echo loudly in the cavern, adding to the despair and fear. Merlin is shaking with cold – despite being firmly pressed together with a number of agitated bodies – and even now he can hear the indistinct sounds he knows are the voices of the people he lost.

All the fires and bulbs of light are long gone and the night is pitch-black, the only remaining source of light and hope is Iseldir's fading falcon. It circles endlessly around them, fighting to contain the creatures to the best of its ability

"T-The s-spell is..." The Druid chokes out, and Merlin has to reach out to stead the other man, for it looks like his legs will crumble under him. " _Ic i anbide mín feorhhyrde._ " As he says the words, Iseldir's hold on the magic slips, and they are cast in total darkness.

Without their last protection, the group is at the mercy of the wraiths. Merlin hears the sound of bodies falling, desperate moans and senseless whispers. From behind him, the warlock thinks Gilli is mumbling Lynn's name over and over again, but it is hard to tell, for many Druids are also talking to themselves in the haze-like state the creatures induce in their attacks.

Merlin can feel the wights circling him, trying to feed on him. He blasts them away in instinctual bits of magic, he tries to summon light again, but the cold and the shadows seem to swallow all his attempts. Louder and louder, Arthur's voice is calling to him.

The warlock tries the spell Iseldir has given him. Over and over he shouts the words, willing his magic to work, but it is to no avail. It is as the Druids have said, it's not simply a question of magic or raw power.

Merlin's attempts at the enchantment now sound more like a prayer than an actual spell. He's barely putting any magic to it, merely saying the words to try to keep the voices away, to buy himself a few more seconds.

He struggles to remember what Maddox had said about the nature of the magic, but the memories are blurred by the despair and the cold. The warlock knows he is supposed to accept _something_ important, but he has no idea what or how. Merlin has the vague recollection of something about one's true self, and the impression of the silver bright shape of animals comes to his mind.

Iseldir's had been a merlin, the warlock thinks with bizarre amusement, a solitary creature, one which can see farther than most. While Maddox's a hedgehog, spiked on the outside, but soft and warm on the inside – quite a fitting description of the Druid himself. Merlin wonders what animal he would be. He hopes it is something strong and fierce, able to protect those he loves.

As Arthur's indistinct mutterings grow clear enough that his sentences can now be deciphered _just-just hold me, please,_ the warlock fights not to let his regrets and mistakes consume him.

Something had saved him back in Wellera. What was it? Merlin must _remember_. It wasn't anything complicated or mysterious. It was the simplest thing in the world. How could he have forgotten it?

Arthur keeps speaking to him, so loudly now it is impossible to ignore. _There's-there's something I want to say._ In the dark, Merlin can almost see his friend's fair skin, the golden hair, the bright blue eyes. _Everything you've done, I know now. For me, for Camelot, for the kingdom you helped me build._

When in dawns on him, the warlock cannot help but smile. The most amazing forms of magic often have nothing to do with long, complicated spells, great defiances of reality, or big demonstrations of power. True magic is in the simple things in life. It is conjuring a flower to make someone grin. Or casting a warming charm on a bed before a sick person is to lie on it. It is playing with the flames of a fire, making impossible shapes emerge from it. Or even enchanting smoke to smell like the thing you miss most in the world.

What else can hope to withstand pure fear and terror but absolute happiness and love?

This time, when Merlin prepares to say the spell, he doesn't focus on embedding his strongest magic on the words, rather, he focuses on the warm feelings of contentment, happiness and love he experiences when in the company of the people who matter to him.

And indeed, it's not only _people_ who matter to him.

" _Ic i anbide mín feorhhyrde._ " As he pronounces each word carefully, the warlock remembers stroking the fur of a unicorn foal, hearing the mournful lament of a phoenix and flying on the back of a dragon.

From Merlin's outstretched hands bursts a blaze of starlight brightness. Instantly, it forces the wraiths away, making them recede to the very entrance of the cavern.

The light has taken such a large shape, it fills every inch of space. It touches everything and everyone, leaving a warm, glowing, soothing sensation in its wake.

The warlock – so dazzled by both the brightness and the relief of finally being free from the oppressing dread – takes a few seconds to realize he is seeing the Great Dragon right in front of him. Not like he was in his last days, frail and withering, but as he must have been on his prime, formidable and proud.

At his feet, the Druids seem to be recovering fast, for in the ethereal glow Merlin can see Iseldir and a few others getting to their feet.

"A dragon!" A high voice calls, and the warlock glances over his shoulder to see Egon pointing excitedly, as if he hadn't been under attack only moments before.

More people are awakening, and as they set eyes on the huge, silver-white dragon standing guard in front of them, gasps of shock and cries of surprise echo against the walls of the cave.

"If there was ever a being to doubt your powers," Iseldir murmurs, eyes fixed ahead of himself, "you have now offered them the utmost proof of your greatness, Emrys."

"For the true self of a sorcerer," adds Sorcha in a wavering voice, still in a crouched position on the floor, being held by Gilli, "to reveal itself in the form of a magical creature… I have never heard of such a thing."

Gilli, for his part, stares open-mouthed at Merlin, still somewhat pale from the ordeal they have just gone through.

"I thought this spell was impossibly difficult to learn," the sorcerer mumbles. "But then again, I feel I shouldn't be surprised that you mastered it in a few minutes while surrounded by soul-sucking demons, Merlin. You've always worked well under pressure."

At that, the warlock can't help but let out an incredulous laugh.

His dragon seems to shine even brighter now, and Merlin wonders if this is what causes him to smile so broadly, or if his happiness and relief at having managed to save his friends is what makes the apparition glow so intensely.

 _How?_ Sounds an awed voice in his head, and the warlock turns to face Maddox, who is slowing rising at his side.

 _It's easy, really_ , Merlin replies silently, gazing back at his creation with deep tenderness. _You just have to remember the reason you keep fighting, the people you love, the moments you felt like you belonged._

"In short," he continues out loud, willing the dragon to fly off and drive the lurking wraiths away, "you have to think of something that makes you happy."

* * *

It's only after the creatures have left the immediate proximities of the cavern, and the Druids have relit the fires and candles, that Merlin allows the protective magic to fade away. He does so reluctantly, for the warlock feels addictively intoxicated by the wonderful sensation of being in the presence of something so familiar and comforting, and yet so unique and enigmatic.

He cannot linger on such thoughts, however, because even though the group has largely recovered, a few of the Druids appear to have been more severely affected.

"She is so cold," Merlin murmurs, as he kneels beside the cot where Bree lies, unconscious. "Isn't there anything we can do?" He asks Nessa, who is busy tucking spare blankets and furs around the girl.

The older Druid shakes her head dismally, wrinkled hands still trembling slightly. "We can keep her and the others warm and pray for the gods to be merciful."

The warlock nods in understanding and soundlessly casts a warming charm on Bree's still form, before rising to his feet and looking around. Half a dozen Druids lie in similar states as the girl's, while the rest remain in varying degrees of indisposition – going from shivering occasionally to being unable to rise from a crouched position next to a blazing fire.

If they hadn't come to see him, Merlin can't help but think, they wouldn't be suffering like this.

"You saved us, Emrys," Nessa says, interrupting his bitter wonderings, almost as if she could hear them. "If it hadn't been for your great magic–"

"You wouldn't have needed saving in the first place," the warlock completes darkly.

Now that he has had time to consider it, Maddox's accusations do not seem far fetched. Never before in Wellera such a great number of wraiths had appeared at once, Gilli told him. After what had just happened, Merlin is certain that it is his magic that must be attracting the creatures. They followed him here, to the Druid camp, just as they had found him in the fishing village.

Nessa opens her mouth, about to disagree, and the warlock decides he'd rather not argue.

"Do you know why some people seem to be more affected than others?" He cuts in, trying to change the course of the conversation.

The woman is diverted by his inquiry, looking thoughtfully at Bree. "She has seen much suffering in her short life," Nessa murmurs softly, stroking the girl's hair.

Merlin is about to ask her to elaborate, when he senses two figures approaching.

"Iseldir, Maddox," he acknowledges, turning to face them and leaving the Druid healer to tend to her charges. "How are you feeling?"

"Recovering," replies the Druid chieftain, smiling wearily. The other Druid doesn't say anything, not even non-verbally.

"Good, good." The warlock nods distractedly at them, already scanning the cavern for signs of people who may need caring for. "I'm leaving shortly, but if there is anything I can do for you before–"

Iseldir frowns at him. "It is the middle of the night," he says reasonably, "you should wait at least until morning."

But Merlin is shaking his head even before the other's finished speaking. "It is too dangerous. You and your group almost died because of me, if it hadn't been for sheer luck–"

 _Not luck, Emrys_. Maddox interrupts, and the warlock finally takes the time to look properly at the Druid to notice his tired-looking visage and labored breathing. He had been badly affected too. _I was wrong to doubt your magic and your heart_ , he adds with a slight bow. _You should remain with us. No other can offer such protection._

Merlin smiles at the stoic man. "I doubted myself," he confesses. "I do not blame you for your misgivings. To be honest," his cordial grin melts into a look of confusion, "I still do not understand exactly what it was that I did."

"You have a solid grasp on the language of the Old Religion, yes?" Confirms Iseldir, before proceeding. "Then you know the spell called forth your protector, your guardian, if you will."

"And your protector is a falcon," says the warlock, "while mine is… a dragon? What does that mean?"

The Druid leader shares a long look with Maddox, and Merlin shifts uncomfortably where he stands, wondering at what they may be saying to one another.

 _This magic is ancient_ , sends the quiet man at last. _It existed even before the languages spoken by men had fully developed. The Druids have but tales to explain the effects of this spell. Our myths say that a sorcerer powerful enough is able to project his or her soul outwards, in the form of a guiding animal. The animals vary from person to person, reflecting its caster's inner self._

"As Sorcha revealed," Iseldir continues, fixing his gaze on the warlock, "it is extremely rare–"

 _We thought it impossible_ , interjects Maddox.

"–for the guide to take the shape of a magical creature," the other forges on, ignoring the interruption. "We cannot explain it," he adds, as if sensing Merlin's next question. "But then again, your very existence is mostly unexplainable, Emrys."

The warlock grimaces at the reminder, and the three men fall silent. He is about to bid them goodnight – Merlin has only now realized that most of the group has settled to rest, and that their low yet constant talking may be keeping them from well-deserved sleep – when a melodious tune echoes in the cavern.

He recognizes it instantly, and his heart tightens with startled joy.

Kilgharrah, the phoenix, flies into their dwelling, his bright scarlet and golden feathers contrasting with the dark shades of the night. His soft singing does not appear to bother those who have already succumbed to sleep, if anything, their tense forms seem to relax slightly at the soothing sounds. The few people who are still awake, stare in amazement, as the magical bird lands on Merlin's shoulder when his song has finished.

"I missed you," the warlock mutters, scratching his friend's wings. Kilgharrah chirps in response.

"Is this..." Breathes Iseldir, apparently undecided between taking an eager step forwards and a cautious step back "...a real, living phoenix?"

Maddox, for his part, has his eyes fixed intently on the creature. In an aborted gesture the Druid seems to reach towards him, as though unable to believe his eyes. He catches himself mid-action and forces his gaze downwards.

The bird tweets again, apparently amused by the Druid's antics.

"Yep," Merlin replies as if it was nothing out of the ordinary, before Kilgharrah jumps into the air once again and disappears from sight. The warlock knows he hasn't left them, though, for beautiful singing can still be heard coming from outside of the cavern.

"Kilgharrah will guard us tonight," Merlin says with certainty, as if the phoenix had just informed him of these plans.

Iseldir seems to be about to say something, but a loud yaw interrupts him.

"That's good news," Gilli's voice cuts after it. "Now can we _please_ go to sleep?"

Incredibly happy with the unexpected return of the magical bird, Merlin lies down with a smile still in his lips. Dawn may yet bring new challenges, but for tonight the warlock is content.

* * *

The following morning, those who had been rendered unconscious by the wraiths awaken at last. Breakfast is accompanied by much excited talk about the previous night. Now that the sun shines timidly – raising the temperature just so that it is possible to sit outside without the constant need to light a fire – the nightmarish tone of their experience seems to have dulled enough for them to chat about it with more awe than dread in their voices.

After being profoundly, and unnecessarily, thanked about a dozen times, Merlin retreats to a quiet spot hidden by a large willow a short distance away from the rest of the group.

Kilgharrah finds him easily, appearing out of nowhere before his eyes and making the warlock choke around the bite of bread he had been swallowing.

"You have to teach me this trick," he manages to say after some coughing. "To teleport from one place to another in a second, no matter how great the distance – that would come in handy," Merlin muses. "Just imagine. I could go back to Camelot every evening to kiss Ygraine goodnight and sup with Gwen and Gaius, then be back to whatever place I was needed."

The phoenix just blinks at him lazily.

"I'm a quick study, promise," the warlock insists, grinning.

After a silent moment of staring, the bird jumps onto Merlin outstretched legs, facing him. Black eyes bore into his blue ones, and the warlock feels his smile slacken as the seriousness of his feathered friend sobers him.

"I'm listening," he whispers in a solemn tone.

The next instant, Merlin is flying through stormy clouds, with thunder roaring from all sides and bolts of lightning illuminating the dark waves of the irate sea. The rain is freezing cold, clogging his feathers uncomfortably. He is approaching something unnatural and foul, the wrongness of it makes his skin crawl.

Soon, he is hovering over a stony island. Waves crash violently against its shores and nothing alive, not even plants or seaweed, seem to stand to grow on it. But it is not the lack of life that makes Merlin recoil from the place.

The oppressing mist that covers the entirety of the island births hundreds of wraith-like creatures. They glide mindlessly from one place to another, waiting for something. Then, as one, they turn to the same direction, as though they had heard someone calling them, and start moving in a convoluted, repulsing mass of dread and horror.

Merlin screams.

Instead of his voice, he hears a sharp, bird-like shriek.

He opens his eyes to find himself in the shadow of a green leaved willow, with a phoenix in his lap and crumbled bread still in his fist. His breaths are shallow, and though he opens his mouth several times to speak, no sounds come out.

"You found them," the warlock gasps out in the end. "That's what you've been doing, searching for the wights."

Kilgharrah nods once, calmly.

"Can you take me there?" Merlin asks, breathless and hopeful, all at once.

The bird stands still for a long moment before inclining his majestic head again.

"Take you where?" A voice sounds from behind the willow branches, making the warlock jump and the phoenix jump with him, if only to avoid falling gracelessly to the ground.

"Gilli!" Merlin shouts, indignantly. "How long have you been spying on us?"

His brown-haired friend sneaks his head inside the warlock's small clearing under the tree.

"Not long," the sorcerer replies, not looking at all concerned with being caught eavesdropping. "Where are you going?" He insists.

Suddenly very tired, Merlin runs a hand through his hair and closes his eyes. "To the foulest place on Earth," he mumbles, half-hoping he won't be understood.

He is not so fortunate. Gilli's easy manner vanishes, to be replaced by daring obstinance.

"I'll begin training right away," he says.

Puzzled, the warlock frowns at him.

"If we are to face the creatures," the sorcerer elaborates, "I have to be able to defend myself. I can't rely on you to protect me at all times. You will have more important things to worry about."

Vigorously, Merlin shakes his head as he comprehends what his friend is saying. "You are not coming with me. It's too dangerous!"

Gilli snorts. "That is exactly why I'm coming with you," he contradicts. "You need someone to watch your back, provide moral support, this sort of thing."

The warlock stands up now, leaving the cover of the willow to face the sorcerer eye to eye.

"I cannot guarantee your safety," Merlin tells him gravely. "I cannot guarantee that you will return." At Gilli's unwavering resoluteness, the warlock feels desperation start creeping in. He cannot lose another friend. He has to make Gilli _understand_. "Are you prepared to risk orphaning Galahad?" He shoots, voice cold and cutting. "Does your son really deserve to lose his father to the very same creatures that took his mother? Do you really wish for him to grow up like you did? Alone and scared? Despising the father who chose to abandon him?"

Flushed, the sorcerer advances on him, pushing the warlock with a flash of his eyes and a twist of his ring. Merlin does not resist him.

"Don't be a hypocrite," Gilli snaps back. "Or have you forgotten the baby girl you left behind in Camelot? Do you think Ygraine deserves to grow up without a father figure?"

Enraged, the warlock lets out an involuntary burst of magic that makes the sorcerer fall to the ground, gasping for air.

"Ygraine _will_ grow up without a father!" Merlin screams, trying to ignore the way his vision blurs. "Because I got him killed!"

In the distance, though the sky is clear, thunder rumbles and the earth shakes with it. The warlock feels restless magic leaking out of him and fights to suppress the need to make something explode.

There is a hefty silence after that admission. The two sorcerers breathe heavily, glaring at each other. The phoenix stares at the pair impassively.

"Stupidly sacrificing yourself won't bring him back," Gilli mumbles after the earth has quietened. "It won't bring anyone back." He pauses, eyes watering. "Just as me coming to this hopeless quest won't bring Lynn back."

All energy seems to leave Merlin at that. "I know." His shoulders sag. "I know," he repeats, as if trying to will himself to accept it. "But what else can we do?"

There isn't a shadow of doubt in Gilli's face when he replies. "We honor their memory. We protect what is left of them in this world." The sorcerer stands up swiftly, and raises his right hand towards Merlin, the reverse position of the one they had found themselves a lifetime ago, in a shabby room, half a kingdom away. "And we do it together."

The warlock stares at his friend for long seconds, but just as Gilli had – the first time around – acquiesced, eventually Merlin does the same, gripping the offered hand firmly.

"We do it together."

* * *

"This is most interesting," Iseldir is saying, as he examines Gilli's silver ring. "It has a… certain power of its own."

They are sitting in a nearby clearing just after lunch. Merlin and Maddox follow their conversation in silence. But they are otherwise alone.

"Do you think I can use it to do the protective spell?" The sorcerer asks again, reaching out to snatch his ring back. "It's just– I can't do magic without it." Gilli looks almost embarrassed at the words, averting his eyes.

Iseldir is thoughtful. "I don't have much experience with magical conduits such as this," he begins, cautiously, "but it should be possible."

The Druid then embarks on a lengthy explanation about the correct pronunciation of the spell, how to guide the magic properly and the need to search within one's heart.

Merlin's attention soon wanders, and he catches himself daydreaming about Camelot and the friends he left behind. Gilli's words have steered something in him, causing the warlock to begin to doubt the reasons he left in the first place. Now he can't wait to defeat the wraiths once and for all and return home. It hasn't been longer than a month, but already he misses the castle and its inhabitants dearly.

He decides he shall bring a small gift to Ygraine, something colorful and soft, but big enough so that she can't swallow, the girl does like to put everything in her mouth–

 _Emrys_ , a subdued voice interrupts his rambling thoughts. Merlin turns to meet Maddox's eyes, while the other two men continue trading questions and instructions. _I wish to accompany you in your quest_ , the Druid declares with no preamble. _I'm well-versed in the magical arts and I believe I can be a great asset to you and your friend._

The warlock frowns. _Aren't you needed here? I had come to understand you are something of an advisor do Iseldir._ In the short period Merlin has spent with the group, the two men are often seen silently conferring with each other.

Maddox nods expressionlessly. _I have many roles,_ he admits, _but none as important and ensuring that my kin is safe from the foul creatures. I have consulted with Iseldir and he has agreed._

There is no hesitation in the Druid's face, but something in his posture makes Merlin glance at the elder man. Iseldir does not falter in his explanation to Gilli, but the graveness in his eyes tells the warlock of a concern that goes beyond the teaching of a spell.

 _And he agreed readily, did he?_ Merlin asks, somewhat coily.

 _...he might have opposed the idea slightly,_ Maddox allows, his obvious reluctance amusing the warlock to no ends.

Merlin hides a snicker behind a cough, but as he watches Gilli and Iseldir get to their feet to begin the practical aspect of the lesson, his smile softens. _It is impossible not to worry about our friends._

The Druid sighs in agreement. _He worries too much_ , Maddox reveals distractedly, also staring at the other pair. _Ever since–_ He cuts himself, shaking his head as if to throw off inconvenient memories, his black-and-white braids jerking like tree leaves in a storm. The subtle relaxation in his tone and posture disappears, to be replaced by the old aloofness and stoicism. _No matter, will you accept my help?_

The warlock considers the question, but in the end the decision is easy. _I do. With one condition._ He pauses to stare into the Druid's eyes, brushing more deeply against his mind to make sure he won't be lied to. _Your priority will be to protect Gilli. If it seems we will be overpowered, you must leave me behind to buy you both time to escape._ Merlin silences Maddox with a look before he can refuse. _If I tell you to grab him and run, you will do so, no hesitation. Either accept these terms or don't come at all._

The Druid doesn't reply right away, as if weighing his options. When he finally answers, he does not blink. _I accept, Emrys_.

Understanding flows between them, and Merlin manages to smile a little. _It won't come to that_ , he tries to reassure the other man.

Maddox returning grimace is dire. _Those were the exact same words I tried to tell myself just before I had my tongue cut out for speaking of the Old Religion in Uther's lands_. He discloses the fact as if it wasn't anything at all, just a mild annoyance from his youth, like a pestering sibling or a thankless chore.

Merlin takes a few seconds to process the words. He can't have heard it correctly.

When the realisation dawns on him, the warlock is so revolted and indignant, for a moment he cannot draw breath to reply. He had wondered at the Druid's peculiar habit of talking only with his thoughts, but he had believed it to be a mere eccentricity, not–not something forced so horribly upon him.

"I'm so sorry," the words escape him in a gasp, he barely notices he is speaking with his mouth and not his mind. "I had no idea."

Maddox waves an unconcerned hand and – almost as if it had been rehearsed – Iseldir appears at their side.

"I could use your help with the demonstration," he says looking at the both of them.

Soon, the four men are standing side by side in the center of the small clearing. Above their heads, a silver hedgehog and a bright falcon circle each other playfully. Merlin marvels at them for a while, before willing his dragon to take shape. As it rises, the large figure completely overshadows the other two animals.

"I still can't get over it, a dragon!" Gilli says, eyes fixed on the ethereal forms above. "I hope mine is something cool too," he mutters to himself, though Merlin is close enough to hear it.

"Well," the warlock replies, not even trying to hide his grin, "I _am_ the last Dragonlord. It has to count for something."

The sorcerer shoves Merlin playfully.

"Try again, Gilli," Iseldir commands, ignoring their exchange.

The young man closes his eyes, an expression of profound concentration on his face. His fingers twist the ring in his hands repeatedly.

" _Ic i anbide mín feorhhyrde,_ " he enchants at last, opening his eyelids to reveal sparkling gold.

A silver wisp bursts from his outstretched palms, but it takes no decisive shape, and soon fades away into nothingness. Gilli groans in frustration.

"Maybe this is the best I can manage," he says dejectedly. "You told me that many competent sorcerers only get to this stage of the spell."

"Do not lose heart," Iseldir encourages. Then, after a brief exchange with the other Druid, he continues, "what Maddox says is right, you've only begun learning this magic today. You have made incredible progress already."

Gilli appears mollified at their words.

"Try again," Merlin spurs, as he lets his dragon wane. "I can't wait to see what animal guide you get. I bet it is something fluffy."

The warlock laughs as he ducks from the spell his friend shoots at him. He doesn't believe he simply imagines the amused glance the Druids share at their antics.

* * *

 **Next chapter:**

Merlin, Gilli, Maddox and Kilgharrah join forces with a reluctant ally to put an audacious plan into motion.


	7. From this world to the next

**Chapter summary:** Merlin must leave the comfort of the Druid settlement to venture into a remote island in the hopes of stopping the demented wights.

* * *

 **A/N:** Welcome to the last chapter before the Epilogue! I hope you like this one, it was quite fun to write.

* * *

 **Chapter 7: From this world to the next**

* * *

They spend a fortnight at the Druid camp.

Merlin worries about the people who might be suffering at Wellera and at who knows how many other villages, hunted by the wraiths. Each night they wait is another opportunity for the creatures to claim more victims, but Iseldir and the others dissuade the warlock from the idea of rushing into action.

It won't do to face the wights unprepared once again.

So they rest and gather their strengths, they plan and train until Merlin can summon his dragon on a whim, not even needing to think the words of the spell, and Gilli manages an uncorporeal but steady cloud of silver brightness.

The warlock admits that it shall be with reluctance that he will leave the Druids when the time comes. He is starting to get used to having silent conversations and seeing others perform magic naturally. Merlin will miss listening to their stories, learning more about their magic and trading herb-lore tips around the fire at the end of the day.

Merlin likes to think that he will be missed too. During meals, when he is not immersed in discussions and planning, Druid children will sometimes approach him and shyly ask if he would be willing to demonstrate his shield-dragon _just one more time, please?_ And both children and adults appear equally mesmerized whenever Kilgharrah flies past them, chirping happily. In the evenings, when they are to share tales, they always listen eagerly when the warlock tells them about the adventures he and Arthur faced in their years together. The youths invariably giggle on any occasion Merlin mentions how he used to be the king's manservant.

Both sooner and later than he'd hoped, comes their last night with the group.

"It is imperative that each of you know the part you are to play," Iseldir insists to Merlin, Gilli and Maddox, as the four of them sit together by a fire, outside the cavern where the rest of the Druids are supping.

The young sorcerer twists his ring nervously. "We _know_ ," he replies rather forcefully, "we've gone over the plan many times. Just relax, alright?"

The druid chieftain tightens his lips at that, but remains silent.

"Do forgive him," a hoarse voice says from the shadows behind them. "It is the unfortunate job of the old to worry for the young."

"Indeed," murmurs Iseldir with a tired sigh. "Will you join us, Elder Sorcha?" He asks, turning to the old woman who had just spoken.

She shakes her head. "I would like to speak to Emrys, if you can spare him."

Merlin jumps to his feet. "Save me some berries," he says, before following the Druid away. She leads him into the forest, walking at a slow pace, using both her staff and her magic to balance her steps.

Sorcha only stops when they have reached an old elder tree. She gazes upwards at the lacy foliage and doesn't speak for the longest time.

Merlin shifts wearily behind her but otherwise sustains the silence.

"You won't find flowers or berries this time of the year on this tree," the Druid whispers at last, running her fingers softly against the rough trunk.

"Tincture of elderberry to treat symptoms of flu and cold, and infusion of elderflower to alleviate constipation," the warlock recites absentmindedly, remembering Gaius' lessons.

Sorcha turns to nod approvingly at him. "You know your remedies," she comments.

Merlin shrugs, slightly embarrassed. "I learned from the best."

The Druid hums, looking thoughtful at him. Then, quite unexpectedly, she reaches for his hand and pulls him forwards with surprising strength. The warlock yelps but manages not to stumble. Sorcha places his palm against the tree bark and holds it there.

"It is important to know these things," she mutters, and Merlin isn't sure if she is talking to him or to herself. "People may forget, but nature does not. These trees hold powers best laid to rest."

"I don't understand," the warlock says, looking sideways at the old Druid, who does not return his stare, but fixes her eyes on the tree trunk, unblinkingly.

She continues as if she hasn't heard him. "There are many choices, there are many paths. But some things are inevitable."

Merlin feels his throat close at such familiar words.

"Have faith," Sorcha mumbles, in airs of conclusion, "it won't be forever."

"What won't be forever?" He asks, apprehension making his voice waver.

The Druid's whole body shudders, and she lets go off his hand to use both of hers to lean on her staff.

"Samhain begins on the morrow," is her reply.

Merlin is at a loss. "I know," he returns helplessly, "that is the reason we are leaving just before dusk tomorrow."

Sorcha's eyes finally meet his. The smile she wears is gentle. "I wish you a safe journey, Emrys. May the spirits and the gods guide you."

And with that, the old Druid turns around and leaves the warlock behind, gaping after her while still pressing his hand on the tree.

When he returns to the fire with the others, Merlin has no appetite for the berries Gilli saved for him.

"What did she want?" The sorcerer asks, eyeing his friend with concern.

Wordlessly, the warlock shakes his head. "I'm not sure..." He pauses for a moment, mostly ignoring the glances the two Druids share. "To warn me, I think."

"What about?" Gilli demands, tone a little higher than usual.

Merlin doesn't answer, too preoccupied with the daunting words Sorcha had revived.

"The Elder is a seer," Iseldir reveals, halting the warlock's frenetic thoughts. "Often she offers us counsel and wisdom, based on what she Sights."

 _Though more often than not her advice is too cryptic to be of any real use_ , Maddox wordlessly explains, doing the closest thing to snorting Merlin has ever seen from the somber Druid.

 _That reminds me of someone I used to know_ , the warlock confides back, as Gilli is asking the druid chieftain about Sorcha's previous predictions.

 _Another seer?_ The Druid inquires, meeting Merlin's eyes with curiosity.

The warlock manages a small grin. _A dragon_.

Maddox raises his eyebrows, but does not comment.

"Anyway," the warlock says loudly, drawing their attention back to him. "She is not the first to warn me about different choices and paths." And he tells them about Anhora's vague prediction, so long ago.

After he's finished, Iseldir looks thoughtful. "Would you choose differently?" He asks, cockying his head at Merlin.

"What do you mean?"

 _Had you not been warned that your choices would have great impact_ , Maddox elaborates, apparently following the other Druid's line of reasoning better than Merlin, _would you have done something different?_

The warlock has to stop for a moment and consider the question. If he had not met Anhora, how would that have impacted his actions? He would have remained by the phoenix's side – he had promised to set it free, after all –, Aithusa would still have found him to meet with Kilgharrah for the last time, Merlin would have returned to Camelot, and when Gilli came with the tale about the wraiths, he would certainly volunteer to help vanquish them.

"It would have changed nothing," Merlin realizes with a start.

Maddox stares at him, a flicker something unnamed passing through his eyes. The warlock takes refuge in Iseldir's understanding smile.

"Prophecies are curious like that," the old Druid says softly. "Sometimes, they come true regardless of our foreknowledge. Other times, they come true _because_ of our foreknowledge."

 _And every now and then_ , Maddox's deep voice resonates in his mind, _they do not come true at all_.

"What is the point of a prophecy, then?" Gilli suddenly asks, shoulders hunched. "If it doesn't matter one way or the other..." He trails off, sounding uncertain.

Merlin would like to know that himself. How many times didn't he feel like he was fulfilling the exact same predictions he was trying to prevent?

That prompts a rare laugh from Iseldir. "That is a question we often wonder about ourselves."

 _Some believe that the purpose of prophecies is to give people hope_ , the gruff Druid mutters silently, clearly disdainful at the notion.

"The less optimistic," interjects the chieftain "think that they are little more than mockery from the gods."

The two Druids share a gaze, as if one was daring the other to give arguments to defend his opinion.

"Either way," Merlin cuts in, "this doesn't change our task, it doesn't change our choice." He pauses to look at both of his companions in the eye. "Prophecy or no prophecy, tomorrow we depart to the birthplace of the creatures and we finish them."

* * *

If Merlin feared a tearful and protracted goodbye, he shouldn't have worried. When it is time for them to go, the Druids quietly bow them good-luck and smile their well-wishes.

Little Egon is one of the most enthusiastic children, hugging the warlock's legs and sending a series of convoluted, colorful images in his head.

"I'm going to miss you too," Merlin replies, ruffling the boy's hair. "And I won't forget you either," he promises.

Behind Egon, Bree fidgets uncomfortably. _T-thank you for everything, Emrys_ , she says, not meeting his eyes. _We will be forever grateful._

"It is I who should be thanking you," he retorts, to both the girl and the other Druids around them, "for your hospitality and kindness. I learned much in these short weeks. I'll take your knowledge and wisdom with me, and I can only hope to prove myself worthy of your trust."

The Druids bow again, and Bree blushes fiercely. Egon, who has returned to her side snickers and turns to Merlin again.

"Bree has a crush on you," he mischievously reveals in a stage-whisper, much to the warlock's embarrassment.

The teen becomes even more scarlat at that, and with a flash of her eyes throws a bowl of cold porridge right in the boy's face.

"I do not!" She denies, grabbing Egon's hand and pulling him away as he splutters on the mouthful of gruel he inadvertently swallowed.

At Merlin's side, Gilli is laughing openly. The warlock glares at him sternly, but it does nothing to dissuade his howling. It is only when Nessa steps forwards to plant two wet kisses on both of Gilli's cheeks, while announcing how he is such a sweet boy, who would always help her prepare meals, that the sorcerer quietens down and it is Merlin's turn to smirk amusedly at his friend's discomfort.

The warlock becomes somber when Sorcha strides towards him with difficulty. Somehow, the Druid looks even older and frailer than she did the night before. With a start, Merlin realizes this will be the last time they ever speak.

"It has been an honor, and a pleasure, Emrys," she says simply, smiling kindly at him.

"Likewise, Elder Sorcha," he inclines his head respectfully.

The old Druid just nods to both Gilli and Maddox, before limping away.

With the serene confidence Merlin has come to associate with the Druid leader in their intermittent encounters throughout the years, Iseldir is the last to approach.

"You have achieved many great things since the first time we met," he tells the warlock softly, "and I know this is but the beginning of your journey."

Merlin's throat clenches and he feels sudden breathlessness overwhelm him. He only manages to nod in acknowledgement at the chieftain.

"And you," Iseldir continues, moving on to stand in front of Gilli, who seems to shift uncomfortably, "are more powerful than you know. You just have to remember that this power comes from here," he places his hand gently on the sorcerer's chest, right above his heart, "and not from the trinket you wear."

Gilli also appears to be at a loss for words, for he simply rubs at his eyes and nods, a bit of color rising to his cheeks.

Then, the chieftain walks on to Maddox, who stands a step behind the other two, stoic and emotionless as ever.

Iseldir doesn't say anything – not out loud at least. Neither does he move to shake hands with the other Druid, or touch him in anyway. But there is something undeniably intimate about the way their eyes meet and they bid mute goodbye.

As Merlin looks away, the image of a silver hedgehog nipping playfully at a bright falcon springs to his mind, and he smiles.

 _I'll return him safely to you_ , he sends to the elder man.

 _Thank you, Ermys_. The chieftain answers, and the warlock thinks he might have heard relief in his tone.

"Ready?" Merlin inquires loudly, and the others nod their assent. "Alright, if you could take a step backwards – just in case." He prompts, gesticulating with his hands, as the Druids line up at the entrance of the cave. At his side, only Gilli and Maddox remain. "Please don't freak out?" The warlock mutters to his eager friend.

"Who do you take me for?" The sorcerer snorts, as he bounces on his feet.

The warlock doesn't bother to reply, focusing instead on the inner, instinctual, raw power inside himself.

 _ **"O drakon, e male so ftengometta tesd'hup'anankes!"**_ He shouts. And in a manner of minutes, the flapping of wings together with high-pitched screeching can be heard beyond the mountains.

From within the clouds comes a large, albino dragon. Just behind her, two big, black wyverns follow.

A few Druids scream, either in terror or excitement, Merlin can't tell, for the ferocious creatures are already landing before them. Gilli and Maddox seem to take a few steps back unconsciously as the ground shakes with the combined weight of two mature wyverns and a growing dragon.

"Thank you for coming, Aithusa," the Dragonlord bows at her. "And thank you for agreeing to do this."

 _I still think this plan of yours is foolish_ , she replies with a grunt. _But we will take you where you wish to go_.

Merlin nods. "Now that you are here, we only have to wait for–"

But he doesn't get to finish, for flames burst right on his face, revealing a chirping phoenix.

Coughing a little, the warlock clears his throat. "Yeah, him."

 _The sun is setting, we don't have all day_ , Aithusa presses impatiently.

 _Alright, alright_. He returns quietly so that the others won't overhear. _Are you sure your wyvern pals will refrain from eating my friends when I'm not looking?_

The dragon huffs. _Do you take us for mindless beasts?_

 _Of course not_ , the Dragonlord replies – a little too quickly, if Aithusa's glare is any indication.

"Come on, guys," Merlin gestures for Gilli and Maddox to approach the wyverns. "They won't bite."

The young sorcerer doesn't look too convinced, but he nonetheless walks to the creature closest to him and climbs on its back, the Druid doing the same with the other wyvern.

Satisfied that his friends are as secure as they can get, Merlin grabs his travelling bag and jumps onto Aithusa – taking impulse with his magic, as the dragon has grown considerably since the last time they saw each other.

When they are all set, the warlock turns to the phoenix, who is swiftly circling the sky above them.

"Lead the way, Kilgharrah," he whispers. And they are off.

* * *

"Are you sure the bird knows where we're going, Merlin?" Gilli shouts over thundering rain.

It has been a couple of hours since they last saw dry land. The farther north they travel, the colder and wetter it seems to get. Kilgharrah is relentless, though, as are Aithusa and the wyverns. Night has long fallen, and the clouds block most of the light from the stars.

"We are almost there," the warlock replies, absolutely certain. He casts bright orbs around them effortlessly, to be able to see better. He remembers flying over these waters with wings of his own before. He knows the cursed island is not far.

And not a moment later, they can see the grotesque shape of rocks and death that make up the origin of the wraiths.

 _This place is foul_ , Aithusa rumbling tones echo in his mind.

Merlin nods his assent. _I don't know what effect the creatures will have on you or on the wyverns. It might be better for you to drop us off and leave._

The dragon ruffs in contempt, rushing forwards and bypassing the guiding phoenix. _You underestimate the resilience of dragons_.

The Dragonlord grips his reptilian friend a bit more tightly – although it is hard to tell if Aithusa can feel it through her coarse scales. _I just don't want you getting hurt_ , he sends back softly.

Merlin cannot say if she is pleased or annoyed at that statement. Probably both.

Before the warlock can add anything, however, Maddox's thoughts interrupt his. _We should cast the shield spell, Emrys. I can already feel the creatures._

The Druid is right. They are still a few meters above the island, but the cold and dread are quickly spreading through Merlin's limbs. Silently, he thinks the words, and in the following moment there are two white dragons, not one, adorning the darkening skies, burning away the feelings of helplessness.

 _Kilgharrah…_ Aithusa mutters in recognition – and something else the Dragonlord can't exactly name, but can easily identify with.

Besides Merlin's shield, Maddox's hedgehog is a small ball of flurry light, and Gilli's heartening if amorphic cloud is a second sea of waves.

The gliding wights appear to sense their approach, for they recoil to the edges and shadows of uneven rocks and dead trees.

Despite the protective spell, Merlin can sense clearly – even more so than he had in Kilgharrah's memories of the place – that the island bore witness to something terrible and unnatural. In his mind's eye, the warlock can almost see the power-hungry sorcerer corrupting the Old Religion and bending it to perverse purposes – to nefast and unexpected consequences. He can see the greedy man being overcome by the very same magic he was trying to conquer. He can see the birth of the first wraith.

After all, it is not the habit of the gatekeeper to the world of the spirits to do the work of mortal men without demanding ruthless sacrifices.

As the dragon and the wyverns land brutally, making the ground crack under their paws, Merlin snaps out of his reverie. While their human companions descend, the reptiles breathe fire upon the surrounding dark creatures, but it does not have much effect, for they simply shrink away momentarily, returning as soon as the flames cease.

The group stands in the center of the island, in a gigantic crater-like structure, carved from black, rough stone. Around it, broken rock hills and cliffs rise several feet into the sky, casting shadows upon them.

 _Circle the island_ , the Dragonlord orders mutely, _don't let the wraiths leave this place_.

Aithusa doesn't answer verbally, but jumps into the air and, with a deafening roar, makes the wyverns follow her.

"And you," Merlin murmurs to the phoenix who perched on his shoulder just as they had landed, "try to catch any strays, alright?"

With a sharp chirp, Kilgharrah moves to obey, flying off and disappearing behind the clouds.

It's up to the sorcerers now. Their shields drift around them, a translucent barrier against a fate worse than death. The wights seem to be waiting for their defenses to tire and wane away. The moment the light falters, Merlin knows, they will attack.

 _Midnight is near_ , Maddox warns calmly from his left, just at Gilli cries out nervously from his right. "It's almost time!"

The warlock doesn't say anything, simply reaches into his weathered bag and takes out a golden, inconspicuous calice. As Merlin holds it carefully, it starts to fill with water from the incessant rain.

Although they have gone over the plan many times, he still feels uncertainty and anxiety creep up his spine, making his heart clench uncomfortably. If this doesn't work, if they guessed wrong…

"Steady now–" The warlock starts to say, only to have his words robbed by the foreign and yet familiar cold that overtakes him, just as it had years before, at a banquet followed by much horror and tragedy.

Merlin's hold on his magic is the first to fade. In the blink of an eye his silver dragon is gone and the island feels ten times darker. Next, it's his grip on the Cup of Life that slackens, and the half filled goblet tumbles to the ground. Then, it's his awareness that deserts him, leaving him in empty, silent, blackness.

 _Emrys…_ A cold voice whispers.

Merlin turns around. He is standing on a flat, slippery surface covered in water. The wetness sinks into his boots and almost reaches his knees. It has stopped raining. Feeling his way around, the warlock touches cold, moss-covered stone. Looking upwards, he can see faint light, as if coming from miles away.

"Hello?" He tries uncertainty, only to have his voice loudly echoed back at him from all sides.

Merlin then realizes he is at the bottom of a deep, large well. Completely alone.

"Welcome, Emrys."

Not so alone, after all.

Turning around once again, he is met with the hooded figure of the Cailleach. Draped in thick, dark rags, her grey skin shines sickly on the moonlight coming from above. Ice-blue, sunken eyes pierce Merlin's with a malicious sadness the warlock has never managed to forget completely.

"Cailleach," he returns, impassive. "I have come to talk."

"Talk, you say." Her otherworldly voice reverbers apathetically. "The creatures of this side of the veil never wish to talk to me, unless it is their intention to meddle with powers they can scarcely comprehend."

The warlock doesn't waver in his gaze and nor in his stance. "And what powers did you offer the sorcerer who last came here?"

The gatekeeper smiles disdainfully. "I offered nothing. He wanted to exploit the forces of the dead. I merely allowed him to get _close_ to the subject of his quarry."

Though her morbid vindication is obvious, Merlin tries to ignore it and forges on. "I thought it was only during Samhain that the veil between words could be opened."

"Indeed, it is," the Cailleach says in stilted tones. "But the veil is not like an iron gate or wooden door, Emrys. What separates the world of the spirits and that of mortal creatures is malleable. As different as one world is to the other, it is impossible to completely close their connection." Her cold smile widens minutely. "How else would the spirits of the dead come to me when their time came?"

"The scales of the world, of life and death, are always tipping from one side to the other..." The warlock murmurs to himself, as the Elder's words come to his mind.

With a knowing expression, the gatekeeper nods. "You have learned much since the last time we met." The way she says it turns the phrase into derision rather than flattery. "Your powers have grown. But your heart is heavier than it once was." The Cailleach takes a step forward, her black staff sloshing the pooled water at their feet. "I wonder which loss did it," she pretentiously contemplates. "Was it the noble knight, who sacrificed himself in your place? Or was it your beloved king, who thanked you at the end?"

Merlin can feel himself shaking with rage and sorrow at her taunts, but he wills his magic under control and his face into blankness.

"These wraith-like creatures," he begins, as if she hadn't spoken, "they do not come from the spirit world, then how…?" He trails off, distracted by the woman's probing gaze.

"When a man dies and his soul and life desert the empty shell, what happens to the body?" The Cailleach asks, rather rhetorically, as she doesn't pause in her condescending explanation. "The flesh is left to spoil. It turns putrid and is barely recognizable as once belonging to a living being. Imagine what happens to a soul brutally removed from the body, but unable to move on to the world of spirits." She snarls viciously. "It _rots_."

The warlock almost gags in revulsion. "How can we save these souls?" He demands in a hoarse voice.

The gatekeeper frowns menacingly at him. "Haven't you been listening? These souls are rotten. Gone forever. There is nothing to be done for them now."

Merlin doesn't let despair overcome him. He takes a deep breath, taking in the stale smell from the pit around them. The unpleasantness and oppressiveness help ground him.

"How can I destroy the wraiths, then?" He asks instead, forcing himself to keep his composure. "There must be a way."

For the first time, the Cailleach looks thoughtful rather than spiteful. "If there is, I do not know," she whispers. "I merely guard the portal. It is not my place to interfere on either side."

The warlock is infuriated by her dismissiveness. "Not your place to interfere?" He snaps forcefully at her, all attempt at calm reasonableness gone. "Every night these creatures condemn more innocent people to a fate worse than death. Your omission and negligence is what allowed them to even exist, and now you refuse to take action to correct your mistake?"

The second he stops speaking, Merlin realizes he has made a grave error. At each word, the gatekeeper seems to attract increasingly more shadows around her. She grows taller and paler, more inhuman than ever before.

"You dare come to my realm," the Cailleach shrieks terribly, "and question my duties and my burdens?" She looms over him imposingly. "I, the gatekeeper, tasked with forever accompanying the souls of the dead as they cross from one world to the next! I, who can never be part of either world. Cursed to live off memories of joy and sorrow always out of my reach!"

Merlin refuses to cower before her. He still remembers the Great Dragon's words about the guardian of the veil. When the warlock speaks, his words are flat but not quite emotionless.

"You told me that my heart becomes heavier with each loss I face," he begins quietly. "But your heart, Cailleach, has grown bitter and cold during your long watch between worlds." Merlin pauses and tries to meet the gatekeeper's gaze with as much compassion as he can muster. "It is lonely to be destined to be forever apart from others. To inhabit the shadows and dark places few would want to venture. I've alway been able to see the sadness and pain in your eyes," he murmurs honestly, "but I wonder if you haven't forgotten that there is more to life – and even death – than loss and despair."

The gatekeeper appears to shrink and deflate before Merlin's eyes. She is no longer enraged and demented, but pensive and sorrowful once again. The Cailleach stares silently at the warlock for a long moment.

"If the creatures cannot be destroyed," Merlin continues softly, pressing his advantage, "then open the veil and allow them to cross to the spirit world. Free the mortals from this torment."

She considers his request closely, as the warlock waits with bated breath.

"I shall permit them passage," she says at last, almost sighing. "Though I doubt they will come willingly to the other side."

Relief makes Merlin's knees go weak. He rushes to answer. "I can worry about pulling them through. There is a spell–"

But the Cailleach is not done. Her face is guarded and distant once more.

"I will open the veil," she declares coldly, "but to do so a life must be sacrificed."

The warlock's warm hopes freeze in his veins. It is Lancelot all over again.

"I was told that the veil demands nothing," Merlin replies testly. "That it is you who–"

But again, he is interrupted.

"It is how it is," the gatekeeper insists. "Come now." Her voice is mockingly sweet. "One single life for the sake of hundreds of thousands? Certainly you realize there couldn't be a better bargain."

Seething, the warlock is so furious he cannot find words to answer.

"But do choose quickly," she jeers. "Your friends don't have much time."

With a start, Merlin realizes the walls of the well seem to grow faint and blurred. The Cailleach is gone. It is raining again. The stone surrounding him is transparent, and through it he can see Maddox and Gilli fighting to keep the wraiths at bay. Looking down at his feet, the warlock sees his own fallen body. At arm's reach, there lies the Cup of Life.

"I don't think we can hold on for much longer!" The young sorcerer is shouting at the Druid, as he clutches tightly to the ring on his finger. His mist-like shield is thin and frail, barely able to keep the wraiths from reaching them.

Maddox spares him a quick glance, before turning to face the creatures again. His silver hedgehog hops around, scaring away the wights that breach through Gilli's mist.

They do not seem to realize Merlin is standing between them.

 _Maddox!_ He tries shouting in the Druid's mind, to no effect.

"I wish Merlin would _wake up_ already!" Gilli insists between ragged breaths.

For this close distance, even in the dark of the starless night, the warlock can see sweat pooling in both Gilli and Maddox's faces. Their hands shake, and they seem to sway where they stand, fighting to keep upright. Gilli is right, they won't be able to hold their shields for long.

Merlin has to help them.

The warlock tries to summon the magic, to call for his dragon-shield. But nothing happens.

The translucent stone wall around him is still fading slowly, and he tries to step past it, to rejoin his body.

On his left, Merlin hears a soft grunt. He turns to look at Maddox, and it is with horrible dread that he sees the Druid falling to his knees, eyes fluttering close.

The night becomes several shades bleaker, as the hedgehog vanishes and Maddox's head hits the wet ground with a hard thud.

"Maddox!" Merlin screams silently – for his voice doesn't seem to be working properly – trying with all his might to reach his friend. But though the well is almost invisible now, it still feels rock solid.

"No!" Gilli is howling too. The moment he turns to look to the Druid, his concentration appears to slip and his hold on the magic slackens, casting them in total darkness.

Merlin can feel only distantly the approach of the wraiths. With the barrier of the wall around him, the creature's effects feel muffled, dimmed somehow. A shiver runs up his limbs, and a twinge of sorrow makes his heart contract. But his mind remains clear and no melancholic voices echo in his ears.

Gilli is not so lucky.

As a horde of wights descend upon him, the sorcerer drops to his knees, screaming. Fighting to keep conscious, he shouts the protective spell over and over again, to no avail.

"Gilli! No!" Merlin roars, eyes fixed on his trembling friend, as he pushes with everything he has against the confining walls keeping him from the others. Helplessly, he glances to the skies, hoping to see a scarlet flash or hear the beating of dragon wings. But there are only heavy clouds and deafening thunder.

Wraiths loom over both the screaming Gilli and the unconscious Maddox, sucking on them. Merlin can't help but notice that they leave his own immobile body well alone, as if there was nothing for them there.

And indeed there isn't, the warlock thinks with a bit of hysteria. His soul is stuck here, in between worlds, well away from their reach.

Merlin would give anything at that moment to be able to feel the freezing cold or the paralyzing dread caused by the dark creatures, if only that meant that he could do _something_ to save his friends from this agonizing violation.

Gilli's howlings have subsided into quiet whimpers and moans. Among indistinguishable strings of sentences, it is possible to catch the constant repetition of _Lynn Lynn Lynn_ that breaks Merlin's heart.

The warlock's eyes sting with frustrated tears, but he feels no wetness. He is merely a bodiless ghost after all.

Then, something in the quality of Gilli's voice changes. His mantra doesn't cease – if anything it becomes more and more frenetic. But the words are no longer desperate and regretful. They still carry their intrinsic wistfulness, but now they are colored in warmth and joy.

It is as if someone changed the tune – yet not the lines – of an intimate ballad.

In a blink of an eye, Gilli has pushed himself onto his feet again. He staggers but doesn't fall. Thrusting his palms forwards, the sorcerer keeps his eyes tightly shut.

" _Ic i anbide mín feorhhyrde._ " His voice does not waver as he enchants, nor does he screams. His tone is low but impossibly confident. In that moment, Gilli is bolder than Merlin has ever witnessed his friend to be – bolder than he was when he came to speak before the whole of Camelot's court, bolder than he was when he insisted to accompany Merlin in his reckless quest.

Silver bright light explodes from the young sorcerer, forcing the wraiths away from himself and his fallen companion. The brightness is so intense, the incorporeal warlock is momentarily blinded by it. He cheers loudly, despite the fact no one else can hear him.

"I knew you could do it!" Merlin shouts in his friend's direction, beaming with pride and joy and numbing relief.

Gilli startles so badly he almost drops to the ground again. His hold on the shield is steady though, and the creatures remain pushed into the farthest shadows.

"Goddammit, Merlin!" The sorcerer shrieks, snapping his head to look at him with a mixture of gratefulness and irritation.

It is only then that the warlock realizes that his hair is plastered with rain and his skin is shivering with cold. He doesn't know how, but he is inhabiting his body once again, freed from the confinement of the unnatural well.

"Now you decide to show up?" Gilli asks, a touch of resentment creeping into his words.

Remorseful, Merlin's gaze flickers away from his friend and towards the galloping shield. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, "I was stuck in this weird–"

But he is completely distracted from his recount, when the scene in front his eyes catches up with him.

A huge, silver-white bear is guarding the trio, a beacon of warmth and happiness in the stormy night.

Merlin's pride increases ten folds, and he fights to keep his smile playful rather than tearful. "And you say _I_ work well under pressure," he jokes weakly.

Gilli's puzzled confusion quickly turns into dumbstruck awe as he follows the warlock's gaze and is met with his own, clearly defined, soul guardian.

 _It was never a question of power_ , a deep voice sounds in Merlin's mind, making it his turn to jump in surprise. _But one of acceptance_.

"Maddox! Are you alright?" The warlock asks, reaching out to stead the trembling Druid as he gets to his feet.

 _I'll recover soon enough, Emrys_ , is his stoic reply. _Do send my thanks to Gilli. If he hadn't stopped the creatures when he did, I fear–_ He cuts himself, shaking his head slowly. _You brought me along to protect your friend, but it was I who needed his protection_ , he sends, full of shame.

Before Merlin has the chance to contradict Maddox, Gilli is stepping around him to pull the Druid into an one-armed hug.

"Did you see that?" The sorcerer unnecessarily inquires, grinning from ear to ear. "Wait until I show Iseldir!"

The older man seems to soften a little at the sorcerer's obvious delight. As they share a look, the pair does not need words – spoken or otherwise – for understanding to flow between them.

"Quick now," Merlin calls, turning their attention back at him, "we don't have much time."

"Did it work?" Gilli demands, sobering up. "Did you speak with the gatekeeper witch?"

Gravely, the warlock nods. "I did. It is as we feared." He lets his gaze wander through the dark corners where the rotten souls cower from Gilli's protective spell. "The wraiths cannot be destroyed. Our only hope is to banish them to the other side of the veil."

The sorcerer appears to shiver at that, but as he opens his mouth to say something, Maddox speaks in Merlin's mind, making him turn towards the Druid, cutting Gilli off.

 _Has the Cailleach agreed to open the veil?_ Maddox inquires, though from his somber expression he already knows the answer.

The warlock shakes his head, before speaking out loud for Gilli's benefit. "She demands a sacrifice. A human life." His words come out bitter and resentful. "It was foolish of me to think she could be reasoned with."

They are silent after that, considering.

At last, Gilli sighs. "Listen, Merlin," he begins quietly, "we have come too far to give up now." He swallows with apparent difficulty. "If it means we will rid the world of these awful demons, I will gladly give my life–"

"No! Absolutely not!" The warlock interrupts vehemently.

 _Emrys_ , Maddox silently calls. _Please, Emrys, allow me the honor._ He bows his head slightly. _Gilli has a child to raise. I, on the other hand, have no family. You have a great destiny ahead of you. You are both so young, while I–_

Briskly, Gilli's arm springs forth and he shoves the Druid mildly with his elbow, cutting off his mute sentence.

"Don't listen to the 'I'm an old man and no one will miss me' bullshit that I know he must be spieling right now," the sorcerer says sharply, glaring at Maddox before turning to stare intently at Merlin. "We both know how much the kids back at the camp look up to him. Not to mention how Iseldir would feel if we returned without his trusted advisor."

The Druid is so surprised at Gilli's words, that he seems to be at a loss of what to say.

"I'm no one important. Not like you two. It has to be me." The young sorcerer insists after taking a deep breath, as if he was steeling himself.

 _Emrys_ , Maddox tries again, apparently having recovered from his speechlessness, but Merlin raises his hand to stall him.

"I thank you, my friends," the warlock says solemnly, "for your willingness to lay your lives for such a noble cause." His grave expression turns sly. "But I refuse to give in to the Cailleach's evil whims. Once, I allowed a friend to sacrifice himself to the gatekeeper." Merlin's eyes are hard and his jaw set. "Never again."

The warlock glances down. A few feet away, the Cup of Life lies forgotten in the dirt. With a flick of his wrist, it comes flying to his waiting hands.

"Gilli, focus on keeping the shield up," Merlin orders swiftly, as if he had spent a lifetime organizing battle strategies and leading armies. "Maddox, don't overtax yourself, but stay by Gilli's side in case he needs the help."

The young sorcerer shakes his head stubbornly. "I don't need the protection," he tells the Druid, completely ignoring Merlin. "Remain by his side and make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."

"Hey!" The warlock exclaims, but the others pay him no mind.

Maddox nods once and – as if to make his intentions even clearer – takes a step closer to Merlin.

The warlock rolls his eyes but decides not to argue. Gilli is already walking in circles around the other two, accompanying his bear as it chases away any wraith that dare approach.

 _Alright, I'm making this up as I go_ , Merlin confesses to the Druid, almost apologetically. _I'm not really good at inventing clever-worded spells. I usually do most of my magic nonverbally. So if I butcher this–_

 _Emrys,_ Maddox interjects, looking faintly bemused. _It doesn't have to sound pretty, as long as it does what it is supposed to do_.

Flashing his friend an abashed grin, the warlock grips the calice in his hands tightly. Closing his eyes, Merlin turns his attention inwards. Blocking off the sounds of thunder, the splashes of raindrops on his face and the dull heat coming off the older man besides him, he feels for the pulsing energy within him. Beating alongside his heart, intrinsically connected, yet separate and unique all the same, his magic easily, almost gratefully comes to his calling.

Merlin, then, allows his awareness to be drawn to the immensely powerful object he holds. The magic of the cup is not like the one inerent to magical creatures or people, it doesn't gasp or shiver in response to its owner's life-force. However, it is also different from the magic of common trinkets, for it doesn't hold still and lifeless, passive to the world.

No, the Cup of Life has always been something else. It calls to Merlin, as if in tender invitation and promise. At the same time, it also warns him off, in looming threat and foreshadowing.

Without giving himself time to think twice about what he is about to do, the warlock plunges his magic right within that of the calice's. He feels himself drowning in it, but does not fight the tide.

When he realizes it, the sensation is more like finally remembering a word that had been on the tip of his tongue all along, than uncovering an obscure, ancient mystery.

Merlin is reminded of how he felt just after Arthur had died, and the full weight and meaning of everything he had discovered in the Crystal Cave finally dawned on him. In those first few weeks, the most impossible forms of magic had felt like child's play. Like something obvious that he had always known.

As time went by and he worked through his grief, that strange sensation subsided. Merlin distanced himself from that all-encompassing magical awareness, and returned to the dimension of mortal creatures and finite existences.

Intimate contact with the Cup of Life rips wide open a door the warlock did not even realize he had closed.

It is with detached understanding that he receives the knowledge of the balance – of life and death.

" _Tóhlíd_ ," Merlin says simply, opening his eyes.

And to think he had worried about not being able to create a spell powerful enough for the magic to do his bidding. The warlock smiles coldly to himself, drinking in the sight of a small fissure breaking up thin air right in front of him. How could magic not do what he wishes? He _is_ magic, and he may do as he pleases.

The vertical crack in the invisible gate widens slowly. Both darkness and brightness break free, making shadows dance. Distantly, Merlin can already hear the screams. A woman shrieks horribly, and he wonders if that could have been the Cailleach.

He _could_ rush the process, he supposes. The warlock tilts his head slightly, admiring his handiwork while twisting the Cup of Life playfully in his hand. If he wanted to, he could reach forwards and wrench the veil apart with his bare hands. He can feel the magic humming just under his skin, begging to be left out, begging to be allowed to satisfy him.

But... It is such a beautiful sight. The glittering night air cracking lazily at his will. The echoes of the dead escaping to join the world of the living. And the magic! The raw power coursing through his veins, brushing against his skin, making him shiver and tingle all over… Such an addictive sensation! Merlin can't begin to comprehend how he could have lived so long without experiencing this bliss. It had been just within his reach all along. If he hadn't been such a weak coward…

Lightning strikes, and thunder is soon to follow. But there is something different about it. The atmosphere is charged with more than electricity. The world seems to vibrate around Merlin, and he doesn't even stop to consider that it might be him who is shaking instead, for he knows it is not the case. He is the master of life and death. The world is at the palm of his hand. It is meant to bend to his will. Just like magic does.

He wants to make time stop. He wants to remain in this moment forever, with the veil tortuously being torn apart, with magic rushing through him in a teasing yet satisfying caress, with no thought, no obtrusive feeling but the ecstasy of being what he is – no hiding, no moderation, no holding back.

Then, as suddenly as it had built up, the sensation vanishes. It feels as if he had been soundly asleep, dreaming the best of dreams, when a freezing cold bucket of water is thrown upon him, harshly waking him up.

Merlin gasps and splutters. His senses are overwhelmed by everything he had been blocking in favor of relishing in power and magic. The rain falls more heavily than ever, the air is so cold he feels raindrops freeze on their way down his cheeks, there are screeches and screams and shrieks and cries echoing loudly all around him. He has been pushed down, and for a moment he doesn't know where he is, or who is shouting by his side or, in fact, who himself is supposed to be.

He opens the eyes he hadn't realized were closed, and is met with a convoluted mess.

Above him, large masses of scales and fire rush past into the air. Aithusa and the wyverns have come back from their scouting, and are viciously breathing fire upon any wraith they can reach, taking turns to swap downwards towards the ground, before rising up again, narrowly escaping being swarmed by the horde of creatures, which climb upon themselves in impossible bundles of rotten, dark things.

Merlin sits up so quickly his vision sways a little. The first thing he notices is that there seems to be thousands upon thousands of wights now. Something big and bright rushes past behind him, and the warlock turns to see Gilli's bear still circling him, fighting to keep the soul-sucking creatures away.

The shield is faint and fading. The wraiths are crazed throwing themselves against the brightness, as if trying to cover it up and cast the night into total darkness again. They are close to succeeding.

Desperately, the warlock jumps to his feet and frantically searches for his friends.

"Gilli! Maddox!" He screams, looking around.

Merlin hears the screeches of the wyverns and the shrieks of the demented wraiths. He thinks he hears human shouting, but cannot locate the source.

He tries to summon his own dragon-shield, but when he reaches to his magic, a burning shock courses through his body, making him howl in blinding pain.

He must have overtaxed himself by manipulating the power of the cup to open the veil.

The veil.

The warlock turns around again. And there it is. The thin crack of shadow-and-brightness a few feet above the ground, frozen in place, neither growing nor shrinking.

He has to finish it, he must send the wraiths away. But his hands are empty and the Cup of Life is nowhere to be found. Something or someone must have taken the object from his grasp, both causing his awareness to come back and the spell to still.

Panic builds within his chest and Merlin finds it hard to draw breath. His heart is beating so fast and so loudly that for a moment he is completely deaf to the chaos around him.

Then, Aithusa swoops down from the skies, and Merlin has to duck to avoid being hit on the face by her bulky paws.

Something drops besides him.

Gilli rolls a few times on the stone ground, before dazedly getting to his feet. "Merlin!" he shouts, running back to the warlock.

The two men hug each other briefly, and sheer relief robbs Merlin of any coherent question he might have asked. "What. The. Hell." Is the only thing he manages to get out.

Thankfully, Gilli understands him perfectly. "As soon as you began to work the magic of the cup," the young sorcerer rushes to explain, panting heavily, "the demons went _crazy_." He gestures around, indicating the mad horde. "They stopped recoiling from the shield charm, and began throwing themselves at it instead, trying to get to you. They were so many! I don't know where they came from. I couldn't stop them, I–" Gilli breaks off, completely out of breath.

On the corner of his eyes, Merlin sees the galloping bear falter slightly, before continuing his rounds.

"My concentration slipped for a second, but it was enough," Gilli continues. "A bunch of them managed to get close to you. Maddox tried to step in their way but they just threw him aside." The warlock blanches at this point. "They ripped out the cup from your hands–"

"What happened to Maddox? Where is he?" Merlin interrupts sharply.

Gilli's expression is of pure terror. "He-he went after it," he stutters. "He chased the wraiths who took the cup. Threw himself right into the middle of them. I-I tried to stop him but–" he cuts himself, shaking his head as if to clear the unwanted thoughts. "They were onto me, the spell wasn't working. I thought that was the end." The sorcerer visibly shivers. "But then the white dragon showed up, breathing fire and all. She landed and I managed to get onto her and cast the protective shield around you again. She fucking saved us."

Merlin looks up. Aithusa and the wyverns are still trying to repel the wraiths, but the tear on the veil seems to have given them more strength, for they are less and less affected by the attacks.

The warlock hadn't realized how much time had passed. It had only been a second for him. If it hadn't been for his friends–

"We have to find Maddox," Merlin says, cutting his own bleak thoughts. "We have to find the cup to finish opening the veil and end this once and for all."

Gilli staggers, and the warlock has to reach to stead him. "Merlin," the sorcerer mumbles. "I don't think I can hold the magic for much longer."

Just as soon as the words leave his mouth, Gilli's bear disappears into thin air. Dread and cold and despair fill Merlin's lungs with full force. Try as he might, he can't do the simplest of spells. It is like his magic resents him – like it is trying to punish him for abusing it so recklessly.

The warlock resorts to screaming. "Aithusa! Help! Aithusa!"

At first, the dragon doesn't seem to have heard him. She flies high above the island, likely searching for slight respite from the onslaught of the wraiths. A second later, though, she is bolting towards the two men, faster than lightning.

 _Out of my way_ , she sends calmly into Merlin's mind, and the Dragonlord tackles Gilli to the floor as flames engulf the creatures preying on them.

The ground trembles when Aithusa lands, roaring and breathing incessant fire.

 _Have you seen Maddox?_ The warlock asks her, as he pushes his heaving friend back to his feet.

The dragon doesn't stop her attack, and even more creatures madly thrusts themselves at them. _The Druid is gone_ , is her somber reply.

"What do you mean–" Merlin starts coughing around smoke.

"Merlin, look!" Gilli interjects, pointing to the top of the tallest stone hill surrounding them.

Rubbing ash from his eyes, the warlock looks up. In the dim brightness of dragonfire and lightning, he sees something small and silver gleam and flicker in the distance. A wave of dark mist tries to eclipse it, but closer and closer the silvery sparkle grows.

 _Emrys…_ A familiar voice calls weakly, and it is only then that Merlin realizes that it is Maddox's hedgehog-shield that he sees rushing down towards the crater where they stand.

The Druid follows at its hills, and even from this distance, it is clear that the older man won't last for long. His protective magic is waning and his steps falter. The dark wave around him is revealed to be made up of uncountable wights, and they press against him unrelenting.

"Aithusa! Go get Maddox!" Merlin orders.

But as the dragon draws breath and flexes her muscles to jump into the air, the wraiths mob them in the split second the fire ceased. They grab onto Aithusa's massive form, and begin sucking on it hungrily. She tries to shake them off, but they are too many. The dragon cries out helplessly, and uselessly beats wings weighted down by both the creatures and the despair they inflict.

In her panic, Aithusa snaps her tail around frenziedly, knocking Merlin and Gilli off their feet accidentally. The warlock rolls away to avoid being trampled by her enormous legs, and in the process is separated from his friend.

The wraiths are so busy with feeding on the dragon, that Merlin gets the reprieve he needs to get up again and try to regain his bearings.

 _Emrys!_ Maddox calls again, and the warlock turns where he stands.

The silver hedgehog is fading, but something golden is shining strongly besides it. The Druid holds the Cup of Life high into the air, and Merlin knows what the old man is about to do.

 _"Maddox, no!"_ He shouts, both with his thoughts and with his voice, but it is too late.

The Druid lets go of his shield in favor of flashing his eyes and making the cup fly from his outstretched hand towards Merlin's. It arches perfectly in the skies, unaffected by the blowing wind of the rain.

Halfway through, however, Maddox passes out, disappearing from sight behind a horde of wights. The calice crumbles down, far beyond Merlin's reach, heading to the mass of gliding monsters. If it touches the ground, all hope is lost.

The warlock cries out, fighting to force his magic to do his bidding, but it remains unrelenting and unresponsive. It is still right there, just outside his grasp, taunting him cruelly.

At the last moment, a flash of gold and red explodes.

"Kilgharrah!" The Dragonlord cheers.

The phoenix, appearing out of nowhere, grabs hold of the cup with its sharp claws and carries it the rest of the way in Merlin's direction. Kilgharrah flies past him, dropping the calice into the warlock's waiting hands.

 _Find Gilli and Maddox! Help them!_ Merlin silently pleads to the bird, but he knows it's already too late, with this many creatures, his friends have but seconds before their souls are stolen from them.

Even if he _could_ summon his dragon-shield, it wouldn't be enough. He needs to protect Gilli and Maddox and Aithusa – who is still pitifully screeching, sounding more like a wyvern than a mighty dragon. Maybe if Kilgharrah–

But just as he thinks of the phoenix, the bird flies too close to the swarm of wraiths in his search for Merlin's friends, and a bunch of them latch on to his golden wings, pulling him down.

The warlock is alone now. His horror silences him completely, and he doesn't even manage to gasp.

Ignoring the hysteria that threatens to overcome him, Merlin focuses on his core, on his magic. He approaches it tentatively, not greedily taking – as he had done before, influenced by the power of the Cup of Life –, but humbly asking. He explores his magic tenderly, as he used to do in the old days, when he still didn't know any spells or magic books.

The warlock channels the cup's energy, but though the temptation is big, he doesn't allow himself to dwell too long on the addictive sensations of magic and power.

When he speaks the spell, Merlin phrases it almost like a question, like a supplication. He doesn't know if it will work, and the warlock realizes he will have only himself to blame if it doesn't.

 _"Anbid feorhhyrdeas,"_ he says.

Streaks of light burst from Merlin's chest, causing him to stagger back a step. Each streak lunges in a different direction, beyond the warlock's control. The shields are warmer and brighter than ever before, and they force the wraiths out of the way like red-hot metal melts away snow.

Merlin recognizes his Great Dragon-like shield, jumping to Aithusa's protection, enclosing her in its large silver wings, roaring mutely to the retreating dark creatures.

Besides the blinding form of the dragon, something smaller strides forth. It circles Gilli's fallen body, kicking at any demented wight that strays behind. At first, the warlock thinks it is a stallion, but then the animal-like guardian turns to look at its caster, and Merlin realizes it is actually a unicorn.

Several feet above the ground, a slender figure floats purposefully towards the last place Kilgharrah was sighted. Its razor-sharp talons cut through the horde of wraiths, opening a wide clearing for the figure to land and gently nudge the fallen bird. Two twin phoenixes – one scarlet the other silver-white – rise again to the skies together.

Farther away, another horse-like animal gallops to the tallest hill, hurling away dark creatures, like a shark cutting through seawater. When it finally reaches its target – the crumpled form of the old Druid – the strange looking spirit-guardian rears forcefully, kicking its front legs over Maddox. It is only then that Merlin notices the horse has large wings and a rather skeletal body. It is a creature with the likes the warlock has never seen before.

He doesn't understand what is happening. Merlin was told that a sorcerer's soul manifestation is always constant in the shape it takes.

The warlock gapes at the sight before his eyes: the wraiths cowering and trying to escape the blinding light, his friends slowing regaining consciousness; Kilgharrah flying in the shadow of Merlin's phoenix-like shield; Aithusa in her right mind again, back at breathing fire at any wight in her path.

On his left, that forgotten fissure floats in mid-air, the tear in the veil between the world of the living and the world of the spirits remains suspended.

 _What are you waiting for?_ Aithusa's sharp tone cuts his astonished musings. _Finish this!_

Her words spur Merlin into action. Gripping the Cup of Life with both hands, he turns to fully face the thin crack.

" _Tóhlíd,"_ the warlock orders again, keeping his eyes fixed on the opening veil.

The cracking spreads, reaching the height of a small mountain. Then, the fracture begins to widen. First, it is as thin a paper leaf, a moment later, it is loose enough to allow a horse to slip into it. Finally, it is wider than the Great Dragon with his wings outstretched to his fullest. A dance of light and shadow glimmers on the other side of the portal, and the voices of the dead carry over even with the rain and wind.

The wraiths are clearly panicking, as if sensing that their time in this world is nearing its end. They make as if to escape the island, but Merlin's animal guardians round them up effortlessly, creating a barrier that forces the creatures towards the gaping veil.

A pale bear and a dim hedgehog join their midst, and the warlock sees Gilli and Maddox on their feet, waving encouragement at Merlin.

It is this sight, combined with the comforting weight of a phoenix landing on his shoulder, that gives the warlock a much needed boost to coerce the shrieking wights through the portal.

By the hundreds, they are swallowed by waves of brightness and darkness. Each wraith that disappears seems to lift a little of the dread lodged in Merlin's chest. Slowly, the rain abates, the thunder quietens, and the grey clouds dissipate.

Shy rays of sunlight break through in the horizon, and the warlock realizes it must already be early morning. His frozen limbs regain color and feeling, and the air no longer burns with cold inside his lungs.

A deafening roar makes Merlin turn back, and he sees Aithusa flying over the cliff of the island, accompanied by the returned wyverns, breathing fire upon wraith strays that had managed to avoid capture.

"You did it!" Gilli calls, beaming. He strides towards the warlock, helping support Maddox's weight, as the Druid limps a little. They've both let go of their animal shields and appear exhausted.

"We did it," Merlin corrects, relief and pride and joy in his returning smile. "I couldn't have done it without both of you."

Something pecks at his right ear, causing the warlock to yelp.

"I mean," he is quick to correct, shooting an apologetical look at Kilgharrah, "without the three of you."

Heavy wings blow a gust of wind in Merlin's face and he splutters. "Without the four of you," he amends, coughing in Aithusa's direction. "But I'm not thanking the two wyverns who chickened out halfway through," he adds, glaring at the aforementioned creatures, who play away in the distance, completely unbothered.

The dragon seems to shrug her agreement, before she turns in midair and rushes to her fickle peers. If to join their play, or scold them, Merlin doesn't know.

The warlock drinks in the scene for a moment. The rising sun, the glittering veil, the winged reptilians wheeling around each other in carefreeness, the phoenix's soft singing and his human friends' souls, whole and very much inside their battered bodies.

A group of silver-white magical creatures still flicker away in the distance, more interested with playing amongst themselves than guarding anything, now that their task is complete.

Merlin thinks of Camelot.

He remembers Gwen and Gaius and Ygraine. The pain of missing them is so sudden and so strong, that he actually glances down to check that he isn't suffering from an unnoticed stab wound to his heart.

The warlock shakes his head. Soon. He will be home soon.

It is only then that Merlin realizes the Druid hasn't uttered a single word since regaining consciousness. Maddox's back is turned to the warlock, and he appears to stare transfixed at something in the background.

 _Is everything alright?_ The warlock sends cautiously, hating the worry that creeps into his tone.

Trembling, the Druid turns and, for a second, Merlin fears that it is anguish that he sees in Maddox's face. The horrible moment passes, and the warlock realizes it is actually mind-numbing amazement that twists the usually impassive man's expression.

 _Whenever I think I have discovered the true wonder of your powers…_ The Druid's soft thoughts brush gently against Merlin's. _Will you ever cease to astound us, Emrys?_

The warlock feels his cheeks flush, so he busies himself with examining the imposing figures of his spirit guardians. The dragon, the phoenix and the winged, reptilian horse circle each other in the skies, while the unicorn follows their progress from the ground, not at all fazed with being the only one unable to fly.

"Close up the veil so we can leave this place," Gilli speaks around a yaw. "Damn, saving the world sure as hell gives me an appetite," he mumbles loudly enough that the others can hear.

Snickering, Merlin turns towards the gaping portal again. He raises the Cup of Life, making it glint prettily in the soft morning light.

" _Belūc_ ," he orders, gripping the warm metal in his hand.

Nothing happens.

He repeats the word, pushing more forcefully with his magic, willing it through the cup, reaching for the power of life and death.

It is right _there_ , just beyond his reach. It is as if now that the veil is opened, it no longer can be touched through this side.

The warlock shrugs, closing his eyes to allow for deeper concentration. As the master of the Cup of Life, both aspects of mortality are within his domain. It is merely a question of twisting himself a bit. He is not afraid of death, no more than he is of life.

Now, when the tendrils of his channeled magic reach forwards, Merlin can touch the portal. He feels around its ragged edges, the sensation much like breaking the surface of a thin waterfall with his fingers. It is cold and fluid, but there is a certain unity, a certain resistance that allows him to grab opposite rims and _pull_ them together.

When it finally closes shut, it is like nothing out of the ordinary has ever happened on this island.

The warlock grins and turns to face his friends.

"All set," he says, gently cracking his sore neck. "Should we–"

But then Merlin realizes there is something strange shimmering before him. He blinks and rubs at his eyes, but the sensation doesn't go away.

Fractures fill his vision, as if the world has become an oil painting, cracked with time and corrosion. There must be a storm approaching too, for suddenly the morning has turned darker and cooler.

The warlock feels wetness pooling at his feet, and he looks downwards to see that his boots disappear under water that had not been there before.

When he raises his gaze again, the tiny fissures all around him have grown more tangible and discernible.

"Guys–" Merlin starts to call his friends, but stops short when he has the clear impression that his voice has just echoed emptily.

Gilli and Maddox are kneeled on the floor, with their backs to the warlock. He knows that the sorcerer is speaking, but at first Merlin can't make out his words, it is like they come from far away, carried by the wind.

"... not again, come on Merlin, wake up..." The young man is pleading, and it is only at that moment that the warlock notices that it is his own body on the ground, beneath the concerned forms of his friends, immobile.

The warlock tries to reach with his hand to touch Gilli's shoulder, but his fingers bump into something sleek and unyielding.

A huge wall of stone surrounds Merlin from all sides, trapping him in.

"No..." He gasps to himself, understanding finally dawning on him. "No, no, no..." The warlock mutters desperately, pushing against his prison with both his fists and his magic.

It is of no use. With each second that ticks by, the unnatural well grows more and more substantial, while the island and his friends become indefinite and impalpable.

 _Maddox! Aithusa!_ Merlin tries shouting with his thoughts. But the Druid doesn't even make to turn from his crouched position, and the warlock can hear only faintly the dragon's roars in the distance.

"Mortals never do heed my words," a supernatural voice sounds from behind him, making the warlock jump. "But I thought you would have learned better."

The Cailleach is smiling predatorially at him.

"After all, you are no mortal yourself, are you, Emrys?"

Merlin clenches his fists, glaring at the gatekeeper. "What have you done? Why am I trapped here?"

The grizzled woman chortles coldly, throwing her head back with nefarious pleasure. "I have done nothing, Emrys," she purrs at him. "This is your doing."

The warlock steps in her direction, raising his palms threateningly. "Do not trifle with me, gatekeeper," he hisses.

The Cailleach remains unaffected. "Oh, but it was you who meddled with powers you can barely comprehend," she replies, face now impassive. "Or did you think you could simply claim my regency but discard my burden?" She asks with mock puzzlement in her eyes. "Did you think yourself above the workings of the balance? Did you really think there wouldn't be consequences to you usurping my role of guardian of the veil?"

Merlin gapes at her. "Usurp your role?" He repeats numbly. "I did nothing of–"

"Did you not overrule my decision?" The gatekeeper interrupts, perversely enjoying herself. "Did you not act on my behalf and manipulate the veil to your ends?"

The warlock wants to deny and argue that he only did what he did to save the mortal world from the wraiths, that the choices he made were in prol of others, and not in selfish gain. But the sweet taste of power lingers under his tongue and stills his words.

"You are the true master of life and death, Ermys," the Cailleach continues relentlessly. "You may even be more powerful than I am." She half bows, derisiveness making the gesture as degrading as the worst insult. "But as such, you have to bear the consequences of this power."

Mournful singing makes Merlin glance over his shoulder.

The stone wall is almost consolidated now, only the faintest impressions from the mortal world manage to slip through cracks on the rocks.

"Kilgharrah!" The warlock shouts, and for a second he can almost believe that the phoenix's black eyes meet his.

But then all light is gone and Merlin is alone with the echoes of his last word.

* * *

 **Next chapter:**

A glimpse into the mind of one of Merlin's friends after the warlock's unwilling sacrifice.


	8. Epilogue

**A/N:** I'm publishing the final piece of this work as a birthday present to myself. Enjoy it alongside me, if you would!

* * *

 **Epilogue**

* * *

It is from a distance that Aithusa watches her Dragonlord fade from the mortal world.

They are all silent. Even her wyverns have quietened down. One human uselessly shakes the warlock's empty shell – though he has given up calling his name –, while the other mumbles in his head senseless prayers to non-existent gods. The phoenix circles the place Emrys' spirit had been standing before being swallowed by the power of the veil. She can tell that at any minute now the bird will start with one of his melancholic tunes.

Were she not a dragon, Aithusa might have tried to kid herself into denying the sensation of deep loneliness and despair at the thought of losing another of her kin. She would have scorned at the notion of feeling regret at the death of the irresponsible Dragonlord who hatched then gave up on her, who murdered her one true friend and who did nothing to save the only other dragon in existence.

Lies and deceit, that's a thing of humans. It is what always destroys them, in the end. Dragons are above such hypocrisy.

Aithusa wills her wings to carry her near to the humans, hovering softly above them. They barely seem to register her presence, absorbed with watching the most peculiar spectacle. The dragon cocks her head at what she sees.

Emrys' guardian animals haven't faded with him, if anything they have grown brighter and denser. The dragon can feel the Dragonlord's magic and soul in them, as strongly as if he was standing right beside her. Aithusa knows little of the senses of humans, but surely, even from their narrow-minded and short-sighted perspectives, that much is clear.

The phoenix, noble being that it is – who comes second only to dragons in matters of magic and power –, has already realized what is going on. He flies higher into the air to join the phoenix-shaped guardian. They loop around the clouds for a few seconds. The living bird's singing is as melodious as she knew it would be – however, his song has pauses in periods of eerie silence, as if half of the duet is being left unsung. If Aithusa were the sentimental sort, she would have called that their goodbye.

The unicorn and the thestral, both on the ground, trot towards the awestruck humans, gently nudging at them with their snouts. The men gingerly touch the beasts' necks, and Aithusa recognizes the moisture in the younger human's eyes as tears. His lips are quirked in a smile, though, so she is unsure of the emotion he means to express.

Then, high above, the dragon-guardian roars mutely, breathing silver white flames in the skies. Aithusa huffs in impatience, but obligingly spreads her wings wider and flies away. They don't circle nor do they touch. The dragons simply look at each other's eyes.

In a moment of quite human madness, Aithusa imagines she can see Kilgharrah in front of her, as he was on the day she was born. He seemed so wise and ancient then. So big and powerful, while she herself was tiny and weak. He knew all the answers to the questions she hadn't learned the words to ask.

But she is no longer the innocent, eager hatchling she had been back then. And though she may never speak, so thoroughly was she mutilated in her years of incarceration, she knows what she needs to say.

 _Light of the sun, you told me my name means. Then why do I meet only darkness in my path?_

 _Will I die as the last dragon, as you once thought you would?_

 _Have you always known it would end like this?_

But then the madness passes, and it is her Dragonlord's eyes she sees through the dragon's.

The guardian turns in mid-air, and tilts to the ground, impossible wind currents carrying its massive form. It rushes to Emrys' fallen form.

The four silver animals join as one, in an explosion of white brightness that forces even Aithusa's eyes closed. She roars and blindly lurches down again.

Even before she opens her eyes she knows that they are all gone. The morning isn't as bright or warm as it had been, and Aithusa can no longer smell the Dragonlord's body on the ground.

That is why you shouldn't grow attached to humans, she thinks to herself, clawing at the stone ground in frustration. They are so fragile, so breakable, their survival instincts so pitiful. They always leave, in the end.

The phoenix chirps in admonishment, and it is only then that Aithusa realizes the humans are staring in fright at her. She snorts back, but ceases the vicious destruction of the rocks. The dragon turns her back at them and takes off.

She roars an order at the wyverns, but doesn't wait to see if they will actually let the humans mount them again.

Aithusa has only beat her wings twice before the phoenix has caught up with her.

 _Where will you go now?_ She inquires disinterestedly, not really expecting a reply, as the pair flies together over the sea of endless waves.

The dragon is mildly surprised, but not quite impressed, when the bird manages to rush past, turning back solemnly to look at her.

The phoenix lets out a cry.

 _Back_ , it seems to say.

* * *

 **A/N:**

So this is it folks!

The original plan was to make this the first of a series of works which would span throughout the centuries, merging with the HP world until we reached recent times. I still would like to do it eventually, but probably not anytime soon.

Anyways! I hope you were able to enjoy this fic as it is. I certainly enjoyed writing and sharing :D

Thanks for reading.


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